


A Summer in Delphi

by rotrude



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1950s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Falling In Love, Friendship, Homophobia, M/M, Travel, journeys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-23
Updated: 2014-08-23
Packaged: 2018-02-14 10:32:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 85,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2188479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rotrude/pseuds/rotrude
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1952, after divorcing, Arthur is cut adrift, at a loss, and compelled to face very personal issues for the first time in years. As he struggles to come to terms with himself and his past, he embarks on a journey to Greece. It's a quest that for him becomes synonymous with finding himself. On his journey of acceptance and discovery, he meets Merlin Emrys, a young travel writer who appears to be as open as Arthur's can't be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spaceAltie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spaceAltie/gifts).



> My thanks go to camelittle for betaing this, and all her clever suggestions and to side_steppings for the flow consult. A heap of thanks also goes to archaelogist-d and brunettepet for making Vivian and her husband sound a bit more Bostonian. And a super shout out goes to the extremely talented spaceAltie, my artist for this fest, because she was a thorough inspiration. Thank you so much for your beautiful work. It left me breathless and was my great motivator throughout.
> 
> If you want to have a look at spaceAltie's beautifully moving art, you can go either here[On Tumblr](http://spacealtie.tumblr.com/post/95644531382/art-for-a-summer-in-delphi-by-the-mighty) or check the art here on [the A03](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2192460)

A Summer in Delphi

  
[](http://s845.photobucket.com/user/pouletroti/media/Delphes_small.jpg.html)

 

Carefully folded shirt in his hands, Arthur pivoted, crystallised in place. His lungs filled, but he didn't expel the air he'd sucked in. Instead, frozen like an insect in amber, he watched. He watched the dust motes floating on the slashes of sunbeams that eased through the cracks between the shutters. And he watched the golden and cream glow the light released, taking in the solid bulk of the bed, half bathed in brightness, half clothed in shadow.

Arthur gave a little low sob, a sound born deep in his chest, coming from his guts.

“Do you think it's a metaphor?” Gwen asked from her spot at the door to their bedroom. 

“I don't--” Arthur said, but the denial wouldn't come out, stiff on cracked lips that he was sure would bleed if he so much as said the words.

“I think you do,” she said, toying with the necklace hanging around her neck. “I think you do know what I mean very well.”

Arthur crumpled the shirt in his hands, his fingers obeying an input he didn't think he'd given them. He'd meant to pack neatly. “Gwen, I--”

“I would say that you were startled into thinking it was,” Gwen said, pointed, sharp. Her voice relented on her next in-take of breath. “That it suddenly hit you.”

There were so many things Arthur wanted to say if the words could just make it past the knot in his throat. But his eyes were wet and he was positive he would cry if he spoke. Though he thought he had little dignity left, he didn't think he wanted to do that in front of his wife.

“I'm going to my parents,” Gwen said, tilting her head at the dainty canvas bag lying on the floor. “I suppose you will arrange things.”

Gwen's words rang out loudly in Arthur's head. As much as Arthur had tried to quash them and with them their call to action, they surfaced into his consciousness, like a blade quivering into stillness. “Yes, I...” He closed his eyes, and braced himself. “The hotel, the girl, and the private detective have all been chosen. We're doing it this Monday.”

Hugging herself, Gwen nodded carefully. “That's good, I suppose. Leon has already put together my discretion statement. I suppose I'll have to tell him he can start on the petition.”

“So Leon is representing you?”

“I thought that after everything,” Gwen said, her voice sharpening again, “I had a right to find comfort in the assistance of those dear to me.”

Arthur breathed out, his chest filling with spikes. “No, of course, you're right.”

“I don't particularly want to appear in court,” Gwen said, smoothing her striped dress, her hands following the contours of the flaring fabric. “Do you?”

Arthur made for the bed, laid the shirt on top of another similar one in the open suitcase. “No, of course not.”

“It'd feel wrong,” Gwen said in a strained, rising voice. “I think. As if we were insects under a microscope.”

“It'd be very unpleasant, I suspect,” Arthur said, running his hand over his shirt, pinching the crease that had formed along its length. “Yes.”

“Like playing roles on a stage,” Gwen says, staring ahead, as though she was picturing the summons. “Like we're marionettes acting for the benefit of the judging public.” She shuddered. “But avoiding that means that we'll have to wait two extra weeks, Leon said.”

“That's true,” Arthur said. “As you wish really.”

“Then our case will be set down for trial,” Gwen said ignoring the interjection, reciting words that were clearly not hers. “If we want a speedy divorce, then we should go for a county court that has a short lists of cases to wade through.”

“I'm not in a hurry,” Arthur said, trudging to the wardrobe.

“You wouldn't be,” Gwen said drily. “It's not as if you're marrying again.”

Blood rushing into his ears, Arthur stopped. “No, you're right,” he said, head bowed. “I don't think I ever will again.”

Gwen let go of of her pearls. “Arthur, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that. It's just that sometimes I get quite angry. Quite angry at the situation, and then I think things like that. Forgive me. I never meant to say it.”

“No,” Arthur said, resuming his walk over to the wardrobe. “You probably didn't.”

“It's healthier, I think,” Gwen said. “Speaking up. We never did speak. Not about anything. It's time we did.”

Arthur ran a hand down the line of clothes hanging in the wardrobe. His suits were still mixed with Gwen's tea dresses, their starkly sombre colours drab in comparison with the varied hues of hers. “I should take a raincoat. The weather in Brighton is always pretty changeable.”

“Would you have told me?” she asked then, the question Arthur was least prepared to answer. 

“Gwaine said I should bring nice clothes,” Arthur said. “Because I'm supposed to be seeing my mistress, and who'd be seeing their mistress in their shabby clothes?”

“Arthur,” she said, taking a step forward. “We could do it some other way.”

“No, I'm going to do this right at least,” he said, clipped, jaw thrust out. He grabbed the raincoat after all. “No blame will ever be laid at your door. The shame will be mine.” Arthur grimaced at the same time Gwen did. Breathing out, he steadied himself. “Believe me, the relative amount of censure I'm going to receive is nothing compared to...” He didn't quite know how to say this to his wife. “Compared to...”

“No, you're right, it's going to be much easier on you than me. Womanising is much different from...” Her eyes softened for a moment, shining in the amber light of afternoon. “I'm sorry. I realise how singularly hard it must... I believe we shouldn't talk about that after all.”

“Perhaps not,” Arthur said, laying the raincoat on top of his other clothes and shutting his suitcase. “Perhaps not.”

Before leaving the room Gwen said, “I'm so sorry, Arthur. So truly sorry.”

 

**** 

 

The hotel room had green floral wall paper. Wide beige roses spread their petals on a darker background, their blossoms reaching upwards, their stems tangling. The windows were open to a vista of the pier, of a bright morning, seagulls cruising the coastline. White curtains flapped in the breeze that stole in and lapped at the tassels of the quilt spread over the king-sized bed.

“So,” Mithian said, shedding her dressing gown to reveal an embroidered lace nightie, “how do we do this?”

With Arthur half paralysed with the knowledge of what came next, it was Gwaine who answered. “Well, Mrs Pendragon's PI is going to burst in five minutes from now.”

“I assume you'd want him to have an eyeful,” Mithian said matter of factly, her upper class tones ringing in a clear alto.

“More importantly we want him to snap a few telling pictures--”

Arthur felt the need to say, “Nothing that makes Mithian uncomfortable.”

Gwaine opened his mouth to object, but Mithian pre-empted him. “Arthur, I'm an actress. There is little that can truly embarrass me.”

“I just--”

Mithian kissed his cheek. “You're a complete darling, but I know what I'm doing.”

“Still,” Arthur said, dipping his head, his bare toes digging into the shaggy carpet.

“Arthur, I said I wanted to help you and that stands,” Mithian said, squeezing his fingers at the tips before letting go. “Whatever it takes.”

“Your reputation,” Arthur started again, doubts overtaking him. Mithian was trying to do his best by him, but that didn't mean what she was doing was the best by herself. Someone ought to look after her when her generosity made her so blind. “It matters.”

Gwaine whistled, a long derisive chime, and told Arthur, “I thought we'd agreed that this is what needs to happen for you to get that divorce.”

Mithian said, “Never mind my reputation, Arthur. I've been talked about before, I'll be talked about in future. This doesn't change that.”

Arthur fetched a sigh. The situation was unpleasant but he couldn't change it. He owed Gwen a stab at happiness, stability. And he owed it to himself to cut down on the lies that had seemingly held his life together. He just hoped nobody would suffer the consequences of his own mistakes. “All right then.”

“Great,” said Gwaine clapping his hands together. “Mithian, get on the bed. Perhaps if you could lose the nightgown as well?”

“Yes, of course,” Mithian said, pushing the covers aside and getting into bed, sitting up against the headboard. “I bet that, as necessary as this is,” she added, lowering the straps of her nightgown, “you were quite looking forward to the nudity angle.”

As the lace garment was tossed away, Arthur dropped his eyes.

Gwaine clutched his chest, as if he was hurt. “You wound me. I'm a true professional.”

“Ha!” Mithian said, tossing her head back, her dark hair flipping over her shoulders. “You may fool many a girl, Mr Greene, but not me.”

“If my lady likes to think so,” Gwaine said, bowing, “then who am I to contradict her?”

Arthur cleared his throat. “What am I to do?”

“Arthur, my friend,” Gwaine said, sweeping his arms at the bed. “Just toss those flannels and... I suppose you're old enough to know how to fake intercourse.”

Shedding his pyjamas, Arthur climbed into bed, sitting next to Mithian. Her skin was cold. “Perhaps you should close the window,” Arthur suggested.

Gwaine's mouth twisted sideways in a reluctant moue aimed at the balcony. “Can't do that. If I do, there won't be enough light for the, you know.” Gwaine mimicked pressing a shutter. “This establishment is so grotty, it's sad, but what will you have? You can't conduct this sort of business in a high-end place.”

“As if you always have tea at the Savoy,” Mithian said, laughter lacing her voice.

“You'd be surprised,” Gwaine said, though he didn't go all the way and imply any more of the truth. “Well, now--” He tapped his watch, an old thing with a square quadrant and a battered leather strap with holes too large for the tang. “I'd better get into the next room.” He stomped to the connecting door and flung it wide open with the same boisterousness that always animated him. “Oh and climb on top of her, will you, Arthur. We need proof, don't we?” Gwaine said, making air quotes before disappearing into the next room. The door slammed shut after him.

Arthur turned to Mithian. “He's right, I believe. Gwen's man's going to turn up soon.”

“Indeed.”

“Maybe we should take a moment.”

Mithian eased down on the mattress. “I don't think there's time.” She smiled. “Come on, Arthur, let's play lovers.”

She was right. It was time. Though Arthur felt his face burn, he climbed on top of her and moved between her legs. This intimacy staggering him, he focused his stare on the sheets, which were clean but threadbare in places, rather that on Mithian's chest. Still, he noticed how pale she was, her complexion milky, a little bit wan perhaps, but beautifully unblemished, like a statue. He also picked up on the contrast between the pallor of her round breasts and the darker tone suffusing her nipples. As soon as that registered, he averted his eyes again.

She petted his hair. “So,” she said conversationally, her lips brushing against his earlobe. “You've finally made a move.”

Arthur didn't pretend to misunderstand her, not after what he'd asked of her. “It had come to the point...”

“That it was inevitable, wasn't it?” Mithian said with a sigh that made her chest fill, her skin warming as it brushed against his. “It was the same between me and Reggie. We were just living our routine, day in, day out. It was comforting, until, of course, it wasn't.”

By way of commentary, Arthur made a little noise.

“Though naturally it was different for you,” Mithian said, putting that out there as though that statement wasn't weighty, life-altering, as though it didn't chill Arthur to the very bones.

“I loved Guinevere,” Arthur said, compressing his mouth.

Mithian brushed his hair back. “Oh I have no doubt you were very much attached to her. She's a striking woman, fair, intelligent. She's always impressed me as being very...” Mithian worried her lip in her search for words. “Very welcoming and soft.” 

“Yes, she's always been all that, and more,” Arthur said, not wanting to devalue Gwen's worth. “Supportive, loyal, and bright.”

“I'm sure she is,” Mithian said. “I don't know her very well but I have a feeling she's a good woman.”

“She is,” Arthur said, level toned but sure of this truth, his truth. “This shouldn't have happened to someone like Gwen. It's going to be very tough on her.” He paused, not quite daring to make another request of Mithian. “She's going to need a friend.”

“I'll try and be one to her,” Mithian said. “If she'll have me.”

Footfalls thundered up the stairs, interrupting their conversation before more unspoken admissions could make it past Arthur's silences. “I think Gwen's man is...”

“Coming, right,” Mithian said, shifting, then slapping his buttock lightly. “Now take your underwear off, Arthur, or no one will ever believe this wasn't staged.”

With a few manoeuvres and a couple of grunts, Arthur shimmied free of his underwear. 

Mithian lowered the covers, kicking at his leg so that it would stick out from under the blankets, hers wrapped around this. With a tug, she lowered his head to her breast.

No sooner had they fallen into this position, than the door flew open with a resounding kick. Arthur heard the Bed and Breakfast owner's yells and the burst of the flash going off, the room brightening in staccato pulses.

To the sound of the owner's wails and the cameras snapping, Arthur trembled and burned with shame, his face hot against the spring-like coolness of Mithian's skin. He closed his eyes.

“One more, one more, Pell,” the man Arthur had pegged down as Gwen's PI said. “One more.”

“Oh my God, this is a scandal, this is horrible, my poor establishment,” the owner said. “And you--” The pounding of fists was muffled by layers of clothing. “Get out of here. Get out of here.”

“We have what we wanted,” Gwen's PI said. “We can go now, ma'am. It's up to the court next.”

Trampling footsteps resounded; the door closed with a snick.

“They're gone now,” Mithian said, moving her hand up and down his flank. “They're gone.”

 

*****

 

Housed as it was in the basement of Queen's Square Blue Gardenia Club, the Mogambo was only a couple of streets away from their accommodation. The establishment was dark and cramped, the air inside it stale with the smell of whisky and thick with smoke from countless cigarettes. The seats, mounted on barrels weighted with sand, were crowded too close together, but for a few of them that lined the furthest corner of the venue and that Mithian, Arthur and Gwaine were occupying. Five huge Wurlitzer jukeboxes stood stacked against the wall, above which hung several photos, some magazine cut-outs, other candids displaying the countenances of the more famous customers who had graced the place. A golden record camped above them all.

A group of young patrons were hand jiving around the jukeboxes, moving to the rhythm of the music.

 _Slow Poke_ was playing, when a man dressed in a sharp Italian suit and pork pie hat slid past the sliding porthole that subbed as door. The burly doorman guarding it stood forward and frisked him. 

“That's Gwen's man,” Gwaine said, tossing back his whisky. “Cedric Lester.”

Mithian smoothed her skirt. “Yeah, I do recognise him now.”

Although the inside of his mouth already felt raw, Arthur took a page out of Gwaine's book and downed his shot. “So that's the man you suggested.”

“Hey,” Gwaine said, holding his palms up, “there aren't that many PIs willing to do this.”

“I think for the money we're paying we could get better.”

“Sometimes not even money can buy a man's conscience, Arthur,” Gwaine said, watching Cedric Lester advance. “Types like him are what's left.”

Mithian kneaded his shoulder. “Everything will soon be over, Arthur. You'll just have to put up with him for a few minutes and then it'll be done.”

“I'll have to see him at the trial,” Arthur said miserably before falling silent. 

Lester got to their table.

“Mr Greene,” Cedric Lester said, tipping his hat at him, “Miss Nemeth.”

Not liking to hear Mithian's name on the man's lips, Arthur started, nearly standing, hands forming into fists.

Mithian's hand curled around his, the pressure subtle. “Mr Lester,” she acknowledged him.

After having doffed his hat and placed it on the table, the PI took a seat. “I'm glad to find you all well, gents --” he said, then leering at Mithian he added, “without forgetting the lady, of course.”

“All things considered, I think we can cut on the introductions and get down to business, Cedric,” Gwaine said, his jaw working.

“Oh come on,” Lester said, sliding his arm around the booth. “I thought we could have a drink or two, chat a little, listen to some music.”

Her clutch in hand, Mithian walked to the jukebox, her skirt, cinched at the waist by a belt, undulating as she moved. When she got to the jukebox, she opened her bag, extracted a coin out of her purse and fed it into the machine. The music stopped. Waves of conversation wafted up to their ears. Mouth curving, Mithian came back to the table. “I thought we needed some silence,” she said. “Let's get down to business before someone gets bored with the blank record.”

Cedric's mouth pursed. He smacked his lips together. “Well, I can see what the lady means, but I'd still counted on a bit of something coming to a place like this. See, I'm thirsty.”

Gwaine passed Cedric his drink.

Cedric gulped it down. “Don't you think that's been watered down?”

Gwaine grunted. “I think we would like to see what we paid for.”

“Yes, indeed,” Mithian said. “Let's see the photos.”

Lester rooted rooted inside his coat pocket and produced a big yellow envelope he pushed towards Arthur.

Swallowing down his distaste, Arthur took it and opened it. A series of 8" × 12" photographs spilled out. Though a few were blurry, they were all telling. Two bodies were wrapped one around the other, a man's back, a woman's legs, the swell of her breast caught from the side. Mithian's features were evident in all but three, his own were easily made-out in at least six of the shots.

“Couldn't have them all turn out perfect, could we,” Lester commented. “Or they'd be able to tell they were posed.”

“Yes, what an artist you are,” Gwaine said, turning aside, his gaze briefly following the oscillating hips of a girl crossing to the dance floor.

“And the gent looks properly dismayed in that last one,” Lester says, his mouth twisting at an angle. “Like it's the genuine deal. You don't always get that.”

Personally, Arthur wanted to gag. He wasn't sure why. He wanted to tell himself that he was repulsed by Lester's attitude, that he was indignant on Mithian's behalf, or that he disliked the notion of his – their nudity – being exposed. But it wasn't that that made him so nauseous. He didn't ask himself why his distaste at this necessary action had risen to such a level of indignation. He didn't try and qualify his anger. He merely experienced it. “Here's the money,” he said, tamping down on his feelings, passing a smaller grey envelope to Lester.

Lester made as if to open it.

“The money's all there,” Arthur said, clipped, his voice dry.

“Pardon me for not trusting all of my clients,” Lester said with a mousy leer. “In my line of work... well, you need to be on the ball or you'll be swindled right out of house and home.”

As Lester counted the banknotes, Arthur looked elsewhere. The music had started again. _Any Time_ was playing, its plaintive tones and cloying, unrealistic lyrics jarring Arthur's ears.

“It's all here,” Cedric Lester said, distracting Arthur from the contemplation of the stupid words to a song. He bundled the banknotes together and, with a practised hand, stuck them into coat pocket. “Money, can't live without it.”

“I thought it was women...” Mithian said in the arch tones of her Lady Macbeth, her eyebrow up.

“Ha, no,” Cedric answered, patting the pocket he'd so lately filled with cash. “You can live without women pretty damned easily. Take my missus. She's who knows where. Do I care?” His mouth edged sideways. “No, I don't.”

“As interesting as this is,” Gwaine said, nipping Cedric's reflections on money and matrimony in the bud, “I'd rather we discussed your testimony.”

“I thought we were already in agreement.”

“Let's go over it again.”

“Yes, let's,” Mithian said, tapping her palm against the table's surface.

Arthur nodded his assent.

Cedric smacked his lips and began describing what he would say in court. “Oh all right... I'll be telling them that Mrs Pendragon hired me because she thought her husband --” Cedric tipped his head at Arthur. “--was bein' unfaithful.”

Arthur inhaled sharply.

“You must make it clear that you never knew Arthur before you started following him.”

“It's not as if I knew the gent anyway,” Cedric said pointedly.

“That's immaterial,” Gwaine said, cheek twitching. “Your subsequent connection to him must stay secret.”

Cedric laughed. “As if I don't know this,” he said, shaking his head and dabbing his sweaty forehead with a napkin. “I've done this before, believe me.”

“Just go over this for me again, will you,” said Gwaine, waving his hand about, his face tensing.

“I started shadowing Mr Pendragon at the behest of his wife,” Cedric said in a bored monotone. “Soon enough I found out he was indeed seeing another lady. I witnessed multiple assignations. When Mrs Pendragon asked me for photographic proof, I followed Mr Pendragon to Brighton.”

“That's my boy,” Gwaine said, not truly warmly but at least sounding content with the absurd recitation.

“Mr Pendragon and his mistress--”

“Whom you did not identify--” Arthur said, leaning forward in his seat.

“Arthur,” Mithian said, her hand landing on top of his, “one look at those photos and they'll know who I am.”

“The judge perhaps,” Arthur said. “Having Mr Lester officially identify you would get your name on the papers.”

“I'm prepared for that,” Mithian said. “It'll happen anyway and you know it.”

“Can I go on?” Cedric Lester asked petulantly. 

Both Arthur and Gwaine nodded their heads.

Cedric reprised his recitation. “I followed them to a Brighton establishment where I surprised them in flagrante.” Cedric waggled his eyebrows. “At that point I'll show them the photos and bam, you're divorced.”

Gwaine and Arthur shared a look. “All right, that will do,” Gwaine said.

“Remember not to mention Miss Nemeth's name.”

“I will.” Cedric mimed tipping his head. “As far as I'm concerned, she was a ravishing dolly bird I didn't recognise.”

Mithian huffed, most probably at the leer Cedric was barely hiding.

“I think we're done then,” Arthur said, rising, his muscles stiff from curbing the desire to punch Cedric Lester in the face.

“What, no drinks?” Cedric said, wrinkling his nose so that he fully resembled a mouse. “No ladies, no...”

Arthur left a banknote on the table. “I think we're done,” he said, before leaving the club with Gwaine and Mithian in tow.

 

***** 

 

“My lord,” Leon said, standing up straight, his wig catching the light of the sun that came in from the window above him. “I appear today with my learned colleague Mr Douglas--” Leon nodded to the man sitting next to him, “on behalf of my client, Mrs Guinevere Pendragon, the petitioner, whom I here call.”

Gwen, dressed in sombre greys, a hat skewed on top of a careful hair-do out of which countless ringlets escaped, took the box.

Leon swore her in, then approached the stand, leaning his elbow on it. “Are you named Guinevere Pendragon, née Smith?”

Gwen sent Arthur a look that made Arthur resettle in his seat and his heart lurch. For the next few minutes they would still share a name and countless other proofs of a life lived together, six years of it. Then it would all be over, as if it hadn't happened, invalidating most of Arthur's life and efforts at living it uprightly.

“Yes,” Gwen said, briefly, without any fuss.

Justice Taliesin, a man whose grizzled eyebrows matched the hue of his wig, said, “Why was this case brought here?”

The registrar leaned in towards the judge and said something Arthur couldn't hear.

“Very well, very well,” Justice Taliesin said. “We can proceed.”

Leon took up the questioning of Gwen again. “You married the respondent--” Leon angled his body towards Arthur, “-- Mr Arthur Pendragon, on the 1st of July 1946 in the registry office in the district of Lambeth, didn't you?”

“Yes, yes, I did,” Gwen said, her voice like that of a clear bell, not much different from the one she'd used to say 'I do' on their wedding day. 

“Did you afterwards live with him in Montague Place?”

“Yes,” Gwen said, lowering her eyes. “Arthur bought a house there for us. He sold his mother's flat, and bought us a house. In spite of his father's opposition…”

Arthur remembered that. He remembered trawling the city for the perfect house, the perfect location, a respectable situation that would make Gwen happy. He distinctly recalled pestering his estate agent, a diminutive fellow with double rings under his eyes until he found them a home that matched his requests.

“Mrs Pendragon,” Leon asked, sweetening his tone, “has there been any issue of your marriage?”

“No,” Gwen said, folding her hands together on the witness box. “For a while I thought there would be, the possibility was... I wanted children. But it wasn't to be, I think.”

“I am so very sorry, Mrs Pendragon,” Leon said, walking to the witness stand. 

Arthur was speared with a pang that caught low in his gut. He had failed Gwen in more ways than one, but that was probably the most glaring of his shortcomings. If he'd given her a child, he might at least have provided her with happiness and joy. But that hadn't happened and all he'd had to offer Gwen was himself, the way he was.

“Did you live happily with your husband until 1951?” Leon asked, a question Arthur knew would be coming.

“Yes,” Gwen said, hesitating but nonetheless sticking to the only script that would grant them a divorce. “We weren't unhappy, most certainly. Arthur--” She licked her lips. “Arthur gave me everything. It's no mystery to anyone that I wasn't well to do before I married him. If anything, that was one of the big objections to our marriage according to his father. But he always gave me everything in his power, everything he thought I might need and more.”

Arthur sat upright, his heart heavy in his chest, like a stone sinking to the bottom of a murky pond.

“Excuse me,” Justice Taliesin intervened, “but are you sure you want to petition for a divorce?”

“Yes, yes I am,” Gwen said, cocking her head towards the judge. “I do want that, my lord.”

“Is there any specific reason why you're petitioning for a divorce?” Leon asked, taking note of the judge's comment and redirecting the thread of the questioning.

“Yes. Arthur – Arthur became different, to me,” Gwen said, lifting her eyes and meeting Arthur's across the length of the small wainscoted courtroom, her voice dry. “There was a point in time...he just stopped trying. Though I think, though I think there's always been something not quite, not quite...”

Leon coughed into his fist. “In what other ways did your husband become different?”

“He went away alone,” Gwen said, her delivery monotone, going back to the script they'd all agreed on. “Sometimes at the weekends.”

Leon stepped in. “Did you complain to him about this?”

“Not at first,” Gwen said, talking to Arthur again. “I didn't feel like I should. At the time it seemed to me to be the right thing to do. It occurred to me that if I didn't press, matters would smooth themselves out.”

“But they didn't,” Leon said, redirecting Gwen's testimony. “And when they didn't, you did complain.”

Gwen dropped her gaze. “Yes, then I did.”

“Was there any change subsequent to your complaints?”

“No, Arthur kept being... distant.”

“Is it true that you found a note addressed to your husband among his personal effects?”

“Yes,” Gwen answered, wetting his lips, the pale light flooding the courtroom reflected in her eyes, turning them almost almond.

“And is it true that that note you chanced upon was in a woman's handwriting?”

“Yes.”

Leon made a gesture, summoning his clerk. “Would you just hand that to my Lord?”

The clerk handed the note to Justice Taliesin. It was, Arthur knew, in Mithian's handwriting and backdated to a few months ago. Gwaine had made sure to crumple and stain the billet so it'd look older than it was.

“And was the note,” Leon asked Gwen, “the reason you hired a private investigator, to keep your husband, shall we say, under observation?”

“Yes.” Gwen's curls bounced of her shoulders as she moved. “That is what I did.”

“Did you thereupon receive any information that spurred you to write the petition upon which this case is based?”

“Yes.”

“Well, thank you, Mrs Pendragon,” Leon said. “That is all we need to hear.”

Her face tight, shadowed, Gwen left the witness box. Next, Leon summoned Cedric. He repeated almost word for word the testimony they had all agreed on at the Mogambo, and provided a copy of the photos Arthur had seen on that same occasion. Next to be summoned was Mrs Mitchell, the owner of the Brighton Bed and Breakfast Arthur, Mithian and Gwaine had stayed at. After Leon had established her identity, more loaded questions followed. 

“Mrs Mitchell, do you recognise any person present here?” Leon asked, sweeping his arms at the room.

“Yes,” Mrs Mitchell said, turning a bracelet around her wrist. “That blond gentleman, over there in the brown coat.”

Leon addressed the court. “I'd like it to be noted that the witness identified the respondent.”

A number of clerks took note, and only after they had, did Leon take the floor again. 

“Do you know his name?” Leon asked Mrs Mitchell, rather theatrically, Arthur thought.

“Yes,” Mrs Mitchell said. “He checked in under the name Arthur Pendragon at my Bed and Breakfast.”

“Which is called The Seagull, am I correct?” Leon asked.

“Yes, sir,” Mrs Mitchell said. “He had room 32.”

“And was Mr Pendragon alone there?” Leon asked, shifting his weight from foot to foot, his gown and flap collar lifting with the motion. “Did he occupy room 32 alone?”

“No,” Mrs Mitchell said, glaring daggers at Arthur. “He and a woman checked in together.”

“Is the woman he was with Mrs Pendragon?” Leon asked, pointing to Gwen. “The woman who testified but a while ago.”

“No,” Mrs Mitchell said, shaking her head, cheeks puffed out with evident indignation. “It was...”

Arthur's blood ran cold.

“That actress,” Mrs Mitchell continued, “the West End star, the one who played Lady Macbeth at the Ambassadors.”

Leon froze, giving the judge a look. “Will his Lordship require an identifier as to the co-respondent?”

Justice Taliesin shook his head, his wig flapping. “No, I suppose enough has been said already. As for the matter of the petition, it is quite clear that the woman in question was not Mrs Pendragon. Mr Knightley, you may proceed with your questioning.”

Leon inclined his head. “Mrs Mitchell,” he said, turning to the witness in the box. “Mrs Mitchell, did you attend Mr Pendragon and the lady that accompanied him often?”

“Yes, I run a small establishment,” she said, her chest filling. “And I do almost everything myself. I served them breakfast twice in a row.”

“Were where they at the time?”

“In bed, sir,” Mrs Mitchell said, cupping her cheek in dismay.

“Were they sitting on this bed?”

“No, sir.”

“Where they in their night things?”

“Yes, indeed they were,” Mrs Mitchell said. “The lady was wearing a lovely negligée.”

“But she wasn't always wearing that particular garment was she?” Leon asked. “Not every time you saw her.”

“No,” Mrs Mitchell got red. “There was this one time... the Gentleman over there--” She pointed to Cedric, who was once more identified for the benefit of the court, “came to my B&B and just burst upstairs without stopping by the reception desk. I shouted at him, told him he couldn't do that. When he didn't stop, I followed him.”

“Where did you follow him?” Leon asked, an eyebrow arched.

“Into--” Mrs Mitchell hiccuped. “Into room 32.”

“And what did you see there?”

“The investigator taking photographs, sir,” Mrs Mitchell answered. Narrowing her eyes, she continued, “And Mr Pendragon in bed, naked with the woman he was sharing his room with.”

Leon turned to Justice Taliesin. “My lord, upon this evidence I ask the court for a decree nisi.”

“I suppose I must find adultery in this case,” Justice Taliesin said, nodding his head, a few hairs of his wigs rising upwards as in a charge of static.

Leon approached the bench. “Your Lordship must have in mind...” he began, scratching at his beard.

“What is it you think I have in mind?”

“With all due deference,” Leon said, “I think your Lordship may be thinking this is a case of hotel evidence with the name of the lady remaining undisclosed.”

Arthur breathed out, gratefulness towards Leon gushing out inside him.

“Indeed, indeed,” Justice Taliesin said, his voice booming in his chest. 

“So that is what I thought you might have been contemplating, my lord.”

“It was,” Taliesin said. He then addressed the court. “I grant Mrs Pendragon a decree nisi on the plea of adultery.”

“With costs?” Leon asked.

Justice Taliesin bobbed his head in confirmation.

Later, they spilled out of the small courtroom, leaving behind its wooden seats and benches, and into a corridor flooded with light. Hat in hand, Arthur strode towards the mouth of it, when he heard Gwen call out to him.

Arthur stopped. 

Gwen overtook him. “So,” she said, one arm around her middle. “We made it.”

Arthur turned his hat in his hands and looked down.

“It sounds quite awful, doesn't it?” she said, biting her lip. “What I just said.”

“We've been planning this for a long time,” Arthur said, looking up from under his lashes. “It seemed like a fair use of the expression.”

“What I meant was,” Gwen said, “that perhaps now we can stop... lying to each other about the meaningful things.”

Hit by the implications of Gwen's words, Arthur staggered backwards.

Gwen took his hand. “I mean we can try and not hide any of the ugliness--”

Arthur closed his eyes.

“That is not what I mean, you know,” Gwen said, squeezing his cold hand before letting go. “Sometimes I feel like there are no words. Some days I wake up and believe I will never find them. But though we hurt each other in ways that cut deep, I was hoping we could be friends. That is all I wanted to say.”

“I apologise,” Arthur said, because it seemed like the only truthful and fair thing to say. “For everything I put you through. I want you to know that I didn't mean to.”

Gwen nodded. “I know that and I don't want you to think I asked for a divorce because I absolutely hated you.”

Arthur looked up, his eyes widening.

“I didn't,” Gwen said hurriedly. “And I don't. But I felt lonely. Even though I was married and I ought to be happy, I felt lonely.”

“I'm so--”

Gwen put her hand on his mouth, her wrist releasing the scent of her perfume. “Let me, please, Arthur. Let me. I experienced that. Not all the time, and not even consistently. But I was aware of there being something lacking.”

Arthur knew he was the one who had been found wanting. He was the one who hadn't fulfilled her expectations, the one who hadn't made her hopes and dreams come true as he had promised himself he would. “Guinevere, I -”

Gwen was very determined when she wanted to be. This time it appeared she needed to be, for she steam-rolled right over him. “There where so many little truths I brushed aside, quite wilfully at times. I told myself that if these things didn't fit into my vision of happiness, I needn't take them into account.” She tilted her head, ringlets dancing around. “So I suppressed them. These facets became like ghosts I played peekaboo games with, like a child. They weren't the truth. They couldn't be.”

“I didn't want that to be the truth either,” Arthur said, breathing harshly through his nostrils. If it hadn't been, none of this would have happened and he wouldn't have caused Gwen to suffer. “But what could I do?”

“Except that the ghosts were real, Arthur,” Gwen said, in a clear, contemplative voice that was only a little broken. “And my not acknowledging them for what they were wasn't making my life splendid and perfect and beautiful--”

“But a nightmare?” Arthur guessed.

“No, never that,” Gwen said with a comforting smile. “But a lie, nonetheless. That was when... You know when. And then I decided, and..” Gwen lifted her shoulders. “Here we are.”

“Yes,” Arthur said, knowing there was more he needed to say to Gwen that he wasn't really able to. He had thought of many reasons why his life had taken this turn, but he couldn't tell whether they were the real deal, or excuses. Until he was sure of his motivations, he couldn't address those issues. He owed Gwen the truth, but he himself had yet to find it. “I suppose it's the end of the road.”

“In a way,” Gwen acknowledged. “I suppose a new life is about to begin for the both of us.” With a tilt of her lips, she added, “I'll have to reinvent myself.”

“As for the money, I want you to know that no matter what the judge decides, I'll always be there for yo--”

With his heavy step, Leon came up to them. Gwen's trench-coat, the one with the jewel buttons and the silk lining, was draped over his arm. “So is everything all right now?” he asked, as though he didn't know what had transpired in the courtroom. Arthur had to guess he was enquiring after their current well-being.

“Everything did.” Gwen looked up at him with a smile. “I'm glad there was a quick resolution at least.”

Leon helped Gwen into her trench-coat, then said, to Arthur, “thank you for choosing to turn up without a solicitor.”

“We wanted your case to be made for you, didn't we,” said Arthur, his spine straightening, his mouth pulling into a line. “I just made the job easier for you.”

“Yes, it was what we wanted but I need you to know I would have done my best by Guinevere irrespective of--” Leon started, but stopped when Gwen splayed a hand on his chest.

“It's quite all right, Leon,” she said. “We all got what we wished for so, I suppose, we should all be friends.”

“Yes, of course,” Arthur said.

“The more so since we want to resolve the financial settlement amicably, don't we?” said Leon.

“Hush, Leon,” Gwen said, slapping him on the arm.

Arthur would have probably told Leon what he had told Gwen, that he didn't care about the money and that he wanted her to have financial security, but then Gwaine turned up, waving his hat at them and Arthur felt a gush of relief flood him. He felt a stabbing need to get out of there. “I'll have to go. Gwaine offered to drive me back to London.” Arthur angled himself towards Gwen. “If you want a lift, I'm sure Gwaine can make space.”

“Oh no, thank you, Arthur,” Gwen said, ducking her head. “I thank you, but Leon and I are catching the 6 o' clock back.”

“Well then,” Arthur said, donning his hat and fastening the coat he hadn't taken off all this time. “See you around.”

“I'll telephone you when we get the decree absolute,” Leon said, making a phone sign with his fingers.

Gwen said, “I'm staying with my parents so if you want to sleep at ours... If you want to sleep in the Marylebone House, you can.”

“No,” Arthur said, slowly backing away in Gwaine's direction. “I'm sleeping at the Connaught for the time being, but thank you for letting me know about the house.”

Gwen said, “Goodbye, Arthur.”

As Arthur rejoined Gwaine, her figure, dwarfed by Leon's who was standing behind her, became smaller and smaller.

 

***** 

When they came in sight of the Connaught, Gwaine slowed the Somerset and idled, kerbside. “Are you sure you're all right, old friend?” he asked, hand on the wheel, body turned towards Arthur.

“I'm fairly sure I'm all right.”

“Arthur,” Gwaine said, raking a hand through his hair. “You just got divorced.”

“I'm perfectly aware,” Arthur said, placing his hand on the handle. 

“It's just that if you want to go and get thoroughly smashed, I'm there for you, all right?”

“I don't need alcohol to weather this, Gwaine,” Arthur said, opening the car door. “But thank you for offering. I--” He bit the inside of his cheek, finding hot, yielding flesh. “I do appreciate it.”

Before Gwaine could say something else, something entirely inappropriate, Arthur jumped out of the car and entered the hotel lobby. 

The area was illuminated with cut glass chandeliers, whose light was reflected over and over by handsome mirrors fitted along the walls. The main desk stood to the right of the entrance, next to a staircase leading to the upper floors. In the centre of the lobby sat a rectangular padded bench with heavily cushioned seats, occupied by guests. Not in a mood for people, Arthur gave them a wide berth and walked to the desk. “Any messages for me?” he asked of the clerk.

The clerk turned around, rooted in the pigeon-hole stacked behind him, and handed him a pile of telephone messages. Arthur quickly glanced at the slips. Mithian had rung in the afternoon, and so had his father's solicitor, to ask if he wanted representation after all. The third call Arthur had received was listed as coming from Uther Pendragon. Arthur pocketed the slips. “Thank you,” he said, accepting the key the clerk passed him.

He'd almost reached the stairs, when Uther intercepted him. “Arthur,” he said, stopping him in his tracks. “Stephen Thornton told me that one of his lawyers went to Ipswich to represent your wife in your divorce case.”

Arthur bounced his key in his palm. “Um, yes. That's true.”

“And how is it that I didn't know my own son was getting divorced?” Uther asked, his lips forming into one thin life that morphed his face into a severe mask.

“I didn't want to bother you with such things,” Arthur said. “I thought you were too busy fighting the Miners Welfare Act to have leisure to consider my private life.”

“Nonsense,” Uther said, the vein in his temple bulging. “I'm interested in my son's welfare.”

Arthur looked to the stairs. “Of course. Well, I got the nisi. It's mostly all done.”

Uther grabbed him by the elbow. “Let's discuss this like proper people,” he said. “Over a drink at the bar.”

With no way out of this short of being completely and unforgivably rude, Arthur followed his father into the hotel café. They sat at opposite ends of a round table clothed in white. Golden plates acted as sign posts; napkins were folded in the shape of tulip bulbs. The silver shone.

As he settled, Father pushed the newspaper lying on the table aside. As soon as Father was settled, the waiter appeared for their orders. When their coffees arrived, a new-fangled espresso for Arthur, a more traditional black one for his father, Uther started talking, “Why didn't you think to tell me?”

For a moment fear shook him, but then Arthur connected the question to their previous discussion in the lobby and said, “Nobody is keen to advertise failure, are they?”

“You had to know I would approve,” Father said, taking a measured sip of his coffee. “I always told you she wasn't the right woman for you.”

“And that was the reason why I didn't tell you,” Arthur said, a wave of indignation replacing all other thoughts.

“I don't understand you, Arthur,” Father said, placing both palms flat on the table, veins and tendons standing out. “You just divorced her. Pardon me for thinking this means you thought her as unsuitable as I did.”

“I never thought her unsuitable,” Arthur said, sending his chair scuttling back a notch, wanting to push off his toes and go. “It just… didn't work out. Now if you'll ex-”

Father clamped his hand around his wrist, stopping Arthur from moving away. “You're quibbling now. It didn't work. She was unsuitable. It's the same thing, Arthur.”

“Not when the failure of our marriage was my fault,” Arthur said, exposing a raw nerve at the same time he unearthed a truth he'd been aware of for a while now. “That changes things.”

Uther sank back against his chair, huffing. “You've always beaten yourself up when it comes to your wife. You've given more than any husband would, particularly considering that she brought nothing to the marriage.”

“Except herself,” Arthur said, “and that was the greatest gift that I could have.”

“It was such a brilliant gift that you relinquished it,” Uther said, clearly not afraid of sounding harsh.

Arthur wanted to go. He wanted to stand up, stride across the bar, and get back to his room, where he could at least count on some peace and quiet. But he knew that if he did, Father would consider him a loser, someone who couldn't stand up for himself. He'd never wanted to be that. “Sometimes people learn that they're not suited to each other,” he said, explaining even though he was sure his father wasn't really keen to listen.

“I could have told you she wasn't.”

“Because she was a Hackney girl?” Arthur scoffed. “That wouldn't have moved me.”

“Because you are unlike,” Father said stiffly. “But you had to go and marry her. To spite me.”

“And yet if I remember correctly you were the one relentlessly pestering me to marry, even though I was young enough at the time not to have to contemplate it.”

Father frowned. “You know why I did. It was a good choice for you. If you'd just settled for a suitable woman.”

Arthur scoffed.

“See,” Father said, pointing a finger at him. “That's the attitude that made you choose Guinevere. I hope that now your rebellious phase is over, you'll make more sensible plans for your future.”

Arthur downed his coffee in one go and, more wired than before, said, “I'm afraid I may have to disappoint you again. I'm leaving the Civil Service.”

“What for?” Father asked, eyes narrow and keen, voice startled, indignation creeping in as a last second salvo.

“I have no idea,” Arthur said, rolling his shoulders in preparation for Father's impending verbal assault.

“Have you considered running the estate?” Father asked, leaning forward, his head cocked, his eyes particularly keen. “You could do some good there.”

“No, I haven't.” For a while Arthur had thought that his father would cut him off once the news of his divorce got to him. His leniency seemed to Arthur to come out of left field. Perhaps he was just happy Arthur was no longer married to Gwen. “I thought you'd be rather glad not to have me, considering that I did the exact opposite of what you preach.”

“Again, nonsense,” Father said, dismissing Arthur's concerns as he'd always done. “I believe in my politics and I am no fan of divorce, but you're still my son.”

Uther always cornered Arthur. He always said unforgivable things – about Guinevere, or Arthur's choices – Arthur ought to react to, but then he blind-sided him with statements like that. Arthur couldn't help it then. He folded and listened. “I do know that.”

“So, how about the property?” Father said. “Are you going to look after it?”

Arthur could see the pros and cons of Father's offer, but he didn't think today was the best day to make such an important decision. “Could I let you know?” 

“Of course,” Uther said, hailing the waiter. “Would you like a second coffee?” he then said, polite, as though he hadn't bullied Arthur into this tête a tête.

Arthur sighed. It could have been worse. “Yes, of course.”

His second coffee was denser and tasted too much like cream.

 

***** 

 

Mithian slipped out of the stage door of the Ambassadors Theatre and climbed into the waiting cab, displacing a newspaper that had been left on the back-seat. It featured a photograph of her under the caption 'Mithian Nemeth involved in divorce scandal'. At the sight of it, she snorted and took a seat next to Arthur. Under the watchful gaze of the cabbie, she kissed Arthur's cheek.

Arthur slinked back. “Mithian, they'll believe the rumour if you persist in acting like this.”

“Fie,” she told him, slapping his arm. “You ought to be brave, Arthur. You can't properly enjoy life if you aren't brave.”

“This is foolishness,” Arthur said, watching the traffic down Lichfield Street, the glare of headlights mingling with that of street lights to give the atmosphere an orange glow that broke the uneven darkness of the moonlit night. “Not bravery.”

“Nonsense, Arthur,” she said, then leaning forward in her seat, she told the driver, “To the Savoy.”

“The Savoy?” Arthur asked. “Oughtn't you to lie low, Mith?”

“Not really,” she said. “I see no real cause for that.”

Upon Mithian's request, the driver dropped them on The Strand, a short distance away from the Savoy's Grill. With a hop that was unhampered by her heels, she got off the cab and waited for Arthur to pay the fare.

When Arthur rejoined her on the pavement, she said, “Let's take a walk before we eat.”

“Won't it get too late by then?”

“No, they always keep a table for me, even after the kitchen closes,” Mithian said, hooking an arm around his. “You're forgetting I'm famous.”

“Notorious, I'd say,” he said, stepping over the front page of a newspaper similar to the one that had littered the cab, and on which Mithian's face was splashed. Stepping all over the rag made him feel a stab of satisfaction. Similarly, he wished he could punch all the gossip mongers, who were ready to tarnish Mithian's name, right in the face. 

Rubbing his arm against the chill, Mithian led him down the Strand, towards Fleet Street. Though it was a mild night, the wind whipped at clothes of the passers-by, causing raincoats to flap and women's skirts to stick to their legs. “I just wanted to know how it had all gone.”

“I got a decree nisi,” Arthur said, better securing his hat on his head. “So I'm partway divorced.”

“No, I knew that,” Mithian said, adapting her pace to his, the tapping of her heels on the pavement like the sound of triangles in an orchestra. “Gwaine rang me to tell me.”

Arthur chuckled. “What's between you two? I mean... are you two an item?”

Mithian threw her head back and looked at the sky, the folds of her gauze scarf tangling with her hair. “For the love of God! The man is attractive but he's quite wild.”

“That isn't,” Arthur said, “a denial.”

They turned towards Waterloo Bridge, a wall of colder air hitting them as they left the Strand. 

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Mithian said, pinning her skirt down with her hand, her bag, which was tied around her wrist, bouncing against her thighs. “I swear.”

Arthur nodded though he raised an eyebrow. “I have no reason not to believe you.”

“Besides, I have my own interests and career to pursue,” Mithian said, slowing her pace. “I can't be thinking about Gwaine and focus. And you know I will give acting my all.”

“Mmmn,” Arthur said, watching the darkness of the river beyond them, the thick mirror of water that appeared uniform in the night. His lips dipped sideways and upwards. “I'm sure you have your priorities sorted.”

“You're deflecting,” she said, pushing him against the bridge's rail and stabbing a finger against his midriff. “All this talk about me, but you're not telling me about you.”

Arthur could spy the pale bulk of St Paul's from where he was. “I don't know where I am yet,” he said, sobering, lifting his chin at the landscape.

“You must have some sort of plan,” Mithian said. “You can't keep living at the Connaught.”

“I left the Civil Service,” he said, which was as abrupt introduction to his plans as possible. Perhaps the manner of it wasn't fair to Mithian, but he found he couldn't quite linger on the whys and wherefores of his actions. He couldn't attempt having a go at normal conversation. “A couple of weeks ago.”

“Oh my God, Arthur,” Mithian said, looking up into his face and studying it boldly. “That's quite risky. Are you sure it was a good idea?”

“Yes.” Arthur looked right over Mithian's head, at the spectre of the Thames floating past below them, dark and murky. “I've thought and thought about it. I needed change.”

“I see,” Mithian said. Not even her acting skills could help her hide the doubt lacing her voice. “Believe me, I do. It does make sense that you'd seek some change. But is such an abrupt decision wise?”

“Father wants me to travel up to Cambridgeshire,” Arthur said, only going over that part of the conversation with his father that didn't make him rage. “He said that, since I was giving up on my career, I could at least look after the estate.”

“And are you?” Mithian asked, tilting her head. “Doing that?”

Arthur had been considering that option for days. Going back home hadn't sounded like a terribly bad option initially. His mother had been born in Northstowe and he wasn't loath to go there. He could go find his roots again. He had, for a moment, pictured himself doing exactly that, reconnecting with his past so that he could find the real core of himself, the one that had existed, careless and unfettered, before he ever went to school, that part of him that wasn't drowning in guilt and misery. He had hadn't been a sad child, after all. He could unearth that. “No,” he said, the path ahead shining quite clear in the brilliance of the night, full of promise. “No, I'm… I'm leaving the country.”

“You're what?” Mithian spluttered in an ear splitting alto. “Do you mean you want to try and get a job at the Foreign Office?”

“No,” Arthur said, shaking his head. “I'm going to Greece.”

Mithian fetched a sigh that mellowed her stance and caused her shoulders to slant downwards. “You're going on holiday then.”

Arthur already knew that that wasn't the case, not exactly. But he couldn't blurt that out. He couldn't tell Mithian that it felt to him, suddenly and inexplicably, as though this urge he had to travel was more like a mission, or a quest, than something as mundane as taking a break from the drudgery of London. He couldn't share all that and yet in contemplating his journey felt weightless, shackle-free. The burden of shame he had been toiling under was removed and he could breathe. He didn't know how long that would last and he couldn't judge how wise this new plan of his was. But he knew that this was the best he'd felt in a long while and he wanted to continue experiencing that. “Not really, I think... I think I'm going to stay for a while, explore the place, and see what it has to tell me.”

“So places speak.”

“I hope they do,” Arthur said, to the moon and stars that were dotting the skyline. “I hope that this one will.”


	2. Chapter 2

Drenched under the midday sun, the road sloped upwards. Mountains covered with spruce and cypresses ringed it. They constituted a towering mass cloaked in clouds. Flora –shrubs, spare trees, and herbs – dotted the land, as far as the eye could see, down to where the horizon line wavered.

In fact, the air was sultry and close, the sun relentless. The asphalt shimmered in the haze of the day, and the heat absorbed by the tarmac passed through the thin soles of Arthur's city shoes. Sweat clung to his back, soaked his shirt – he'd long discarded both tie and jacket – and beaded his brow. 

As he sucked in air that smelled like the sea, his nose dilated. 

With his arm, he dabbed at his forehead and squinted ahead against the glare of the sun. He could see more of the road stretching ahead of him, and spy the bulk of a few houses in the distance, but he still couldn't tell where he was. Putting down his case, he unrolled the map that he had stuck in the back pocket of his trousers and did his best to read it.

He studied it for the better part of two minutes, a couple of buses trundling past him while he was so deep in his reading. He might have signalled and caught them, but now it was a question of principle; he had to find his bearings.

Arthur was still poring over the map, his belief in his own capacity to read it correctly wavering, when an old man with a weathered face brushed past him. “I'm sorry,” he called after him, hope washing through him at the thought he would now be set in the right direction. “Could you point me to Delphi?”

The man's features knitted together. 

Arthur repeated his question, though perhaps more slowly and a notch louder. “I'm looking for the Palace Hotel in Delphi?”

The man answered in Greek.

“Right of course,” Arthur said, more to himself than to the man. “No chance of you speaking English, is there?” He tried the question again, this time in Greek. Since Arthur had no modern Greek and only knew a smattering of ancient, the man's frown only deepened. Arthur crumpled the blasted map under his arm, and prepared to try the question again.

“If you go on like that,” a young man with a sharp nose and dark hair said, “you're never going to get an answer.” 

“Well, if you did understand the question and know the answer,” Arthur said, embarrassment getting the better of his manners, “then you could help instead of standing there gloating.”

The young man laughed. He turned and said something to the old man, in Greek. The latter lifted his hand in some kind of universal 'peace' sign and walked away. The young man scurried back to Arthur instead. From this close, Arthur could get a better look at him. His hair was a bird nest the sun had lent a copper burnish to. Despite the unforgiving glare of the summer sun though, he was as pale as if he had spent the afternoon in Westminster. A few freckles seemed to be the only concession to the effect of the July weather on him. He was otherwise quite pleasant to look at. A sea of laugh lines surrounded eyes that were of a deep blue. His mouth was a soft bow. His face was a coruscation of sharp lines that somehow seemed to make sense when thrown together so haphazardly. “I wasn't gloating,” the young man told him with a grin and a slight trace of a Welsh accent. “But I was laughing at your Greek.”

“Why, thank you,” Arthur said, less acerbically than he might have but still fairly put out. “That was so kind of you, having a laugh at me while I was standing there under a forty degree sun and running the risk of suffering from a sunstroke.”

The young man's eyes narrowed as they studied him. “Hardly,” he said. “You seem healthy enough.”

“Still no thanks to you,” Arthur found himself blurting out although by all rights he should have cut this conversation short and just asked this man for directions. “But rather to my constitution.”

“Yes, of course,” the young man said. “Your stalwart, British constitution.”

“Look,” Arthur said, unaware of how he'd landed into this bizarre situation, “I'm just looking for Delphi, if you can tell me where it is, well and good, if not I'll try to make heads or tails of--”

“See that mountain over there,” the young man told him, pointing his finger in the direction of the mountain range crowning the landscape. “That's Mount Parnassus over there, so if, by any chance you have any knowledge whatsoever of history or classical literature, you'll know that--”

“Yeah, that Delphi's at its foot,” Arthur finished before he glared. “Do you always quiz those who ask directions of you?”

“No,” the young man said. “Only the ones who use English wherever they go, thinking they'll be understood no matter what the local language is.”

“We can't all be polyglots,” Arthur said in a huff, heat prickling at his skin. “But thank you for pointing me straight.” He lifted his case and started towards the mountain.

A few moments later the young man caught up with him. At first Arthur just marched on without talking to him, but since the man kept pace with him, he at last relented and said, “What?”

“Just making sure you get to your destination,” the man said, sticking his hand out to shake. “I'm Merlin Emrys, by the way.”

[ ](http://s845.photobucket.com/user/pouletroti/media/Merlin_final.jpg.html)

Arthur stopped, put his suitcase down and briefly shook Merlin Emrys' hand. “Arthur Pendragon.” 

Their hands still clasped, Merlin studied him from under the arch of his eyebrow. This study lasted several seconds and made Arthur feel so self-conscious he stepped back, putting an end to the prolonged handshake. Having picked up his luggage for the second time, he started up the incline again.

Emrys fell into step with him easily enough. And though there had been an inquisitive, even teasing quality to his stare before, he was now content to walk side by side with Arthur. As they proceeded, he even fell silent, the quickening of his breath on the harsher segments of the slope the only sound between them. Since he didn't know where they were going, Arthur let him take the lead. 

Emrys made good pace as he went uphill, then steered Arthur into a town perched onto the side of the mountain. Red roofs topped low, whitewashed houses that faced each other across narrow streets. These streets climbed and dipped. Some crested the mountain, leading to small squares that vanished the moment you cut a corner. Others straddled stairs and circumscribed sun washed plazas. 

As they advanced, some of the locals tipped their hats at Merlin or otherwise saluted him. Merlin returned all gestures and acknowledgements with a smile on his face. Despite running into a number of friendly faces, Merlin didn't leave Arthur to his own devices, making it a point of escorting him all the way. When they'd walked past the big church that loomed over the town, Emrys finally addressed him again. “The Palace you said?”

“Yes,” Arthur told Emrys. “You do know where it is?”

“Of course,” Mr Emrys said, taking a turn so swiftly he caused Arthur to jog to catch up with him. “It's down there.”

Sure enough a taller, modern building rose at the foot of some ancient stairs. It was washed in rose and its roof sloped forwards, all crimson tiles and low chimney stacks. Two columns fronted the entrance, which was otherwise shadowed by a palm tree, whose branches struggled aslant a tiny, but well-kept courtyard. Flowers streamed out of flower beds and bees buzzed about. Having appropriated a shadowy spot, a dog was sleeping on a mat to the side of the entrance.

“That's it,” Mr Emrys said, pointing with his chin at the building. “The Palace.”

“It doesn't look palatial,” Arthur said, squinting at the structure.

“Nothing around here quite is,” Mr Emrys told him with the tiniest of shrugs. “I mean lots of people drive from Athens but don't stay overnight, so the infrastructure isn't geared up for much tourism.”

“I see,” Arthur said. Since his muscles were aching, he put his suitcase down. “Well, at least it looks cheerful.”

“I've been told it isn't bad at all,” Emrys said, offering to shake hands with Arthur once more. 

“Oh.” Arthur started, grasping his hand. “Well, thank you for helping me.”

“I didn't have the heart to leave you to fend for yourself, Mr Pendragon,” Emrys said, letting go of him. Then pretending to be doffing a hat he didn't currently have with him, he added, “I hope you have a nice stay in Delphi, Mr Pendragon.”

Mr Emrys' shadow lengthened as he walked away. 

Arthur watched till it disappeared at the top of the stairs. He then bent over to lift his luggage, and made for the hotel door.

 

****

 

Arthur's room was on the second floor. Despite not being very ample, it was airy. Two windows took up one side of it. Having left his suitcase by the door, Arthur went to the window and opened the casement. The window opened to a vista of grassland interspersed with olive groves that rolled out to the sea. The white-crested azure of the Aegean clashed against the terra cottas hues that stood out amidst clusters of deep greens and greys.

Sitting on the sill, he inhaled full draughts of the sharp scent of evergreens that came from the mountains. At the same time the salty mist from the faraway sea touched his face. His lungs expanded. “Doesn't smell like London at all,” he said, leaning his head against the casement.

Only when the first pink streaks of sunset appeared far on the horizon line did Arthur move from his perch. Curtains flapping softly in the warm evening wind, Arthur stood, undid the first buttons of his shirt and removed his socks and shoes. Piece by piece, he stripped off all his sweat-soaked clothing and padded into the bathroom.

In the full-length mirror that adorned the side of the tub, he saw a reflection of his body. As he stretched, it went taut. 

Despite the long office hours his former job had subjected him to, Arthur was still trim. His legs were thick with muscle and his hips spare. His biceps bulged, though not overly so, and his shoulders were strong. The scar on his neck was a faint line, a little pale, hardly visible at all these days. All in all, he was still young and full of unfocused energy. Though he didn't know what purpose it could possibly serve, he vibrated with it.

[ ](http://s845.photobucket.com/user/pouletroti/media/Arthur_Final.jpg.html)

On a whim, he curled his hands into fists, watching the tendons stick out, his sinews contract and flex. To no end. Emptily. He let his hands drop. On the heels of an entirely different urge, he let them ghost over his quiescent cock. Briefly, he considered touching it, thought about stirring the idleness of it and morphing it into active desire. But when he realised that all the mental images he was able to summon were wrong, constituting as they did the active cause behind the collapse of his marriage, he stopped. Holding still, he breathed in and out, emptying his mind of all thought.

Leaning over, he opened the taps and filled the tub with warm water. When the tub was full, soap bubbles cresting the water, he stepped in it. The warmth feeling so good, he soaked in it for about an hour. He stayed in until his skin was as pink as a lobster's, and his fingers wrinkled. Though drowsiness weighed him down, suggesting he surrender to it then and there, Arthur got out of the tub and dried himself with clean, well-laundered towels.

Dressing meticulously in a crisp, white shirt, and dark suit, he changed for the evening. His keys in his pocket, he went downstairs. Since it was still relatively early for dinner – especially by Greek standards – Arthur walked into the bar, sitting on the leather stool fronting the shelves. “A gin and tonic,” he told the barman.

As the barman prepared the concoction, Arthur munched some olives that came from the round metal bowl placed on the counter.

“Here you are, sir,” the barman told him once he was done, offering Arthur a tall glass, frosted with condensation.

Arthur had barely started sipping at it, when a tall gentleman with broad shoulders and ginger hair settled next to him. “I couldn't help overhearing,” the man said with an American accent Arthur couldn't exactly place. “You're English, aren't you?”

Arthur took a sip of his drink. “Yes, I am.”

“I've been touring Europe for so long I've started missing the dulcet sounds of English,” the man said, rounding the statement with boisterous laughter. “Even your kind will do.” He stuck his hand out. “Henry Sagramore.”

Arthur could do nothing but shake the man's hand. 

“You're new here,” Sagramore guessed. “Haven't seen you around before.”

“I arrived today,” Arthur said, toying with his drink.

“So you're brand new,” Sagramore said, slapping his thigh. “I should've guessed. See, there's a specific air the seasoned tourist has, between the bored and the blasé, that you don't have.”

“So you've grown bored of Greece,” Arthur said flatly. “Shouldn't you cut your holiday short and make for home?”

“Oh no,” Mr Sagramore said, holding a finger up. “No, we have plans, my wife and I. It wouldn't do to upset them.”

Arthur made a non-committal noise, neither agreement nor censure.

“Besides,” Mr Sagramore continued, “what would we tell our friends back home in Boston? That we have no idea what Crete looks like because we folded, turned tail and ran for home before we could get there? No, sir. I think not.”

“Yes, that wouldn't be quite as satisfying,” Arthur said, turning the glass in his hand, till the mint leaf at the bottom had come front and centre once again.

“Not nearly as much, no,” Mr Sagramore said, placing both hands on his thigh. “You don't come this far so often, so we told ourselves, Viv and I, that we should go through with it.”

“Wise choice.” Needing the buzz of alcohol, Arthur drank some more. “Commendable.”

“Yes, indeed,” Mr Sagramore said. “I mean we are fed up with the heat and the inconvenience of travelling and with the language barrier. I mean, by God, nobody understands you around these parts, and by these parts I mean Europe. Not here, not in Rome and not even in Paris...”

Arthur grimaced, and rearranged his neck-tie. “Yes, something like that happened to me earlier today though I should say it was probably my fault my point did not get across. Someone was so kind as to point that out to me.”

“By the same token the locals could have tried harder too,” Mr Sagramore said. “And believe me that's just the beginning of your misadventures. Sometimes I have a feeling the people here are doing it on purpose. I mean how difficult can it be?”

“I hardly think it's deliberate,” Arthur said, turning back to his drink.

“Well, I'm a suspicious fellow, Mister...”

Arthur found himself forced to supply his name. 

“What an old world name,” Sagramore said. “Like mine. My family came from the old country, too, originally, with a dash of Dutch and German to spice things up a bit.”

“That's very interesting.”

“Oh, yes, in a way it is, all these people emigrating in the past,” Mr Sagramore said. “I guess we could even have common ancestors.”

“Wouldn't that be stretching the laws of probability?”

Mr Sagramore flapped his hand about. “Maybe, Mr Pendragon, maybe. But that doesn't mean we shouldn't stick together when stranded abroad.”

Arthur let his eyes widen in mild enquiry, but didn't comment either way.

“And that's the reason why you should dine with us,” Mr Sagramore continued, pointing to a woman ambling about the lobby with a cocktail glass in her hand. “We're trying to widen our group.” He waved to his wife. “Honey, come over here.”

The lady in question, a blonde dressed in a pastel dress, ornamented by mother of pearl buttons, which was cinched at the waist by a belt, walked over, her heels clicking to the rhythm of her motions. Leaning against him, she put her hand on her husband's arm, her hair, which was arranged in loose waves, brushing the top of his jacket. “Yes, dear,” she said, with an undertone of boredom, her cherry red lips forming the words slowly. “You wanted me?”

“Yes, yes, always, Vivian, dear,” Sagramore joked, placing his hand on his wife's waist over the satiny folds of her frock. “Though the reason I called you over just now is that I wanted to introduce you to my new friend, Mr Arthur Pendragon, from England.”

“Hello, Mr Pendragon,” Vivian said, offering her hand for a kiss. “Pleased to meet you.”

Arthur brushed his lips against Vivian Sagramore's knuckles. “Enchanted.”

“Viv,” Mr Sagramore said. “I asked Mr Pendragon to dine with us. What do you think?”

Vivian gave a small smile. “His company will surely be more welcome than that of those boring Outwaithes,” she said, tossing her blond ringlets back, so they covered the sparkly barrette that pinned her tresses.

Mr Sagramore leant close, cupping his mouth as though to cover up his conspiratorial whispering. “The Outwaithes are compatriots of yours, cousins or some such. Viv doesn't like them much.”

“Their conversation is so limited,” Vivian Sagramore said, sighing.

“That's why I asked Mr Pendragon to join us.” Sagramore made fish eyes. “Wasn't that a brilliant idea, dear?”

Vivian Sagramore tapped her fingernail against the glass she was holding, a hollow sound resulting from the contact. “I guess he'll do. I guess he'll do.”

In the wake of this welcome of sorts, Arthur couldn't refuse the invitation. He dined with the Sagramores in the hotel restaurant. The three course meal featured a lot of variety but little taste, though all dishes were superbly decorated. The wine, however, was good. It tasted of crushed red fruit, with a strong herbal note, thick with the savour of the earth. For a moment, if he forgot the current conversation – which involved the Sagramore's neighbours in Beacon Hill – Arthur could imagine himself exploring his connection to the earth, to this place. He could see himself time-travelling on the wings of his fancy. He could easily cast himself in the role of a wanderer finding the thread that linked the products he was partaking of to Greece's past. He'd learn about those tastes and shapes, colours and sounds that characterised this land Arthur wanted to know more about.

“I hope you're not too tired?” Mr Sagramore told Arthur, snapping him out his reverie. “Because we meant to introduce you to the others.” He winced a bit. “You won't be able to avoid the Outwaithes even if you tried, but Tristan Corbett and his wife Isolde are smart people, and fine acquaintances.”

“More interesting than the Outwaithes,” Vivian said, nodding her head. “Vastly so.”

After dinner, they repaired to the hotel's terrace, where some of the other hotel guests had gathered to enjoy a moment's rest before turning in for the night. A few were merely taking in the vista the balcony afforded them, while some others were using the light coming from the patio doors to either read or write postcards. 

The empty cups arrayed on the tables showed that most of them had taken their coffee in the open.

The two middle aged ladies occupying the table closest to the rail Arthur supposed to be the Mrs Outwaithes. Their hair was starkly tinged with grey but still retained traces of its original colour, blonde in case of the woman on the left, a deep brown in the case of the one on the right. Though their complexions differed, they had a multiplicity of common features: small eyes that gave them a fierce expression as well as strong jaws and thin lips. 

Arthur overheard one of them say, “I’m looking forward to tending to my garden again once I'm home.”

“If your father hadn't been the eldest,” the second lady said, “that garden would have been mine.”

“As it happens my father was the eldest.”

“I'll never understand why he had to be favoured anyway. Mine was decorated in the Great War.”

The ladies exchanged some more chatter until they noticed the Sagramores, and by extension Arthur.

“Ha. Here comes the happily married couple,” one said. 

The other lady added, “And they've brought a new handsome fellow with them. I bet it's all for the wife's pleasure.”

Though he had heard, Arthur tried not to react to that. Instead he accompanied the Sagramores to one of the iron, green enamelled chairs that dotted the balcony. He took a seat. 

Unlike him, the gentleman leaning on the balcony rail, puffing at his pipe, snorted when he heard the Outwaithes' gossip.

Mr Sagramore said, “Shall we order a coffee and play cards?”

The mildness of the evening attracted Arthur. The moon shone softly in a velvety sky, dotted here and there with ragged wisps of cloud. The air was clean and fresh and tasted like the sea, salty and tangy. Though the Sagramores weren't the best company possible, they weren't the worst available, and Arthur wasn't sleepy in the least. “I guess I will,” he said. “Perhaps a round of poker.”

“We'll need a fourth for that,” said Mr Sagramore, inviting the man at the rail over. “Mr Corbett, fancy a game?”

Corbett turned around, hand on the rail. His severe features didn't relax at the offer, to the point Arthur thought he would refuse. But then a woman appeared at the French doors, and Corbett said, “Yes, why not?”

They played for an hour or so, Mrs Corbett – the latest arrival – sitting by her husband's side. Arthur won a hand, Mrs Sagramore three. They had coffee and chocolates while Corbett smoked his pipe.

When the clouds obscured the moon, threatening rain, the group went back inside. Before they could each get to their rooms Mr Sagramore told Arthur, “We're going to explore the area over the next few days, I'll hope you'll join our party.”

Arthur didn't refuse.

 

**** 

 

The first few days of his stay in Greece, Arthur tried to spend alone. He woke up earlier than the other guests and set out on long walks that took him all over the Delphi area. He scrambled up the side of the Pindus mountain range, swam in the sea and sunned himself on ledges and beaches. Down by the cliffs the emerald green water sparkled with white-caps, glimmering in the midday sun. 

When he tired of the sun, Arthur looked to the mountains for inspiration

The peaks ranging around Delphi and spreading northwards were outlined against a cornflower-blue sky that seemed to be the one constant of this Greek summer. Arthur could see their heights from afar, from down in the valley and from the centre of town. Attracted to their craggy imperiousness, their stark beauty, he decided to visit them. 

On the way up to the top, ruins rose everywhere, unspeakably ancient, frail yet stubborn in their century-long weathering of the elements. 

They weren't the only beauty to take in. Juniper woodlands covered the slopes in the colours of summer. The hills rolling down to the sea foamed over with sturdy flowers, rising from beds of pointy, narrow foliage. On one of his expeditions Arthur found a gorge, cut through by a semi dry streamlet.

Clouds scuttled past like floating white feathers. When he got to the rickety wooden bridge spanning the watercourse, Arthur paused on the structure to breathe in the frizzy air. It sat heavy on his lungs the way mountain air always does.

For the first time since he had arrived, he felt like he had cut all ties with the way his life had been before, with the man he used to be. But he didn't know who he'd morphed into or what new bonds had replaced the old ones, or if any had at all. He had come here because he thought he would find some answers, but that quest still hadn't been fulfilled. He felt unmistakeably alone, with his new acquaintances at the hotel representing a kind of human contact he should probably seek, but that he perceived to be aimless and, overall, empty. Not that he'd stumbled into more meaningful connections.

Arthur supposed that didn't matter. Here, under this timeless sky, everything seemed fleeting, people and their moods, and even the litter of events that made up Arthur's personal history. These happenings seemed to be merely incidental and in no way designed to alter the fixed path of his life.

But what would ever? He was set on a course that couldn't change because of the constituent parts that had gone in the making of him. These, though, were gloomy thoughts, and Arthur chided himself for them. Greece had to offer an out, if only in terms of peace, the finding of some renewed vigour. 

With renewed purpose, he clattered down the steep stony path ahead and steamed across a narrow gulley. The more he walked, the more filled with a new sense of freedom he felt. It was staggering and terrifying, as though his spirit had been released by the trappings of society, and he was allowed to roam wild in the silence and solitude of the mountains. This freedom felt revitalising and empowering on the one hand, and isolating on the other. Still, it was a sensation he wanted to steep in.

Only here...

In this mood, he traipsed around the rising countryside.

Towards three, the sun relentless on his back and neck, Arthur stopped, feeling the need for some rest. He lay spread-eagled on a slope, high above the valley he'd tramped along, the rocks hard under him, but still forming a cradle of sorts. Up here the air was crisp and, and under the shadow provided by a ledge, cooler. Pleasant. He stayed there with his eyes nearly shut, listening to the murmur of the wind. A bush poked out of the opposite rock wall and branched up, silhouetted against the skyline.

He studied it until his vision blurred.

As he lazed, he felt welded to the earth, a by-product of nature, like the stones and rocks the gulley was strewn with. He belonged. Without a doubt he belonged. He hadn't been cast out of it, this peace. The more he indulged in that sensation, the heavier his body got. His eyelids became leaden and he slept. 

When the sun went down, the temperature did too. This change woke him. Still in a daze, he picked himself up and started heading downwards towards the valley. Though it was still hot, he did not slacken his pace, but forged ahead. 

The descent on uneven ground strained his muscles in a pleasant way and while he was concentrating on the enterprise he almost didn't notice the time going by. Still, the diminishing light told him he'd better hurry unless he wanted to find himself out in the countryside at night. So instead of continuing down the path he was on, he took the short-cut that snaked down the face of the mountain. With the top of Parnassus as his guide, he started down the incline.

He was half way down, when he noticed a man coming down the opposite side of mountain. They were coming from completely disparate directions and there was no way their paths could cross unless the man slowed or Arthur took off at a run. All in all, Arthur was surprised to find that someone who wasn't a sheep herder had actually got up here so late in the season. In his experience so far no one ever trod these paths. Not in this heat. But that man over there had ventured forth just like Arthur had.

Squinting, Arthur took in the form of the wanderer. The man was wearing no shirt, but khaki trousers that even at a distance seemed well worn, torn in places, and heavy boots suitable for hikes of the kind he was engaged on. As he hopped from boulder to boulder, his features became visible; the head of dark hair, the lean build, the long legs that supported the man into each jump. As he watched, Arthur recognised the person. Or thought he did. The thrill of recognition pushed him off his toes.

“Mr Emrys!” he called out, cupping his hands around his mouth and hoping the man would hear him. “Merlin!”

Mr Emrys neither slowed nor perked his head up. He gave no sign whatsoever of having heard.

Knowing that shouting again would be useless, Arthur hastened down the slope. The ground was too steep for him to keep his balance though and soon he understood he was going too quickly to slow down. With no other option, he went with his momentum, and started sliding over the slippery turf.

His pace escalated and he tumbled down the rough terrain. Flashes of ochre and green rushed past him as he surfed downwards. To stop his descent, he grabbed at low saplings and bushes. They didn't help. He crash landed onto a rocky stony pass. “Shit, that hurts,” he said, once he found he was no longer snowballing down the crest, but rather lying on his back on a bed of turf. With a hiss, he scrambled back to his feet. 

He was sore, the small of his back gave off painful twinges, and his hands were scratched raw, but he was otherwise okay. By the time he'd properly got a hold of himself though, Merlin Emrys had disappeared and twilight had begun impinging.

The chances of finding out where Mr Emrys had gone and catching up with him were minimal, close to zero even.

With a sigh, Arthur clattered down the mountain. Perhaps he'd see him again before Arthur's holiday was over.

At the hotel Arthur had a restoring drink, delivered courtesy of room service, and a hot bath. When he felt better and his hands were bandaged, he went downstairs. He had dinner alone, but his solitude was immaterial to him. He was so hungry he wouldn't have skipped it for the world, but wasn't in a mood for the Sagramores. So he was content with wolfing down double portions of every item on the menu with no one to bear him company.

When he left the restaurant music floated over to him. He strolled into one of the little salons that flanked the dinner area and was met at the door by Mrs Sagramore. “You look decidedly the worse for wear tonight, Mr Pendragon,” she said, taking his arm and walking him around the room. 

“I went on an outing earlier today,” Arthur said, adapting his pace to the music the two violinists on the small stage at the end of the salon were playing. “Took a tumble down the side of the mountain.”

 

“Perhaps you should take less dangerous paths,” Vivian said, turning him around when they'd reached the end of the corridor.

 

“I only stumbled because I saw someone I knew.”

 

“During your walk?”

 

“Yes,” Arthur said, lifting his shoulders in self defence. “I know it sounds unlikely I should meet someone I know up in the mountains, but I did.”

 

“I'm not questioning that,” Mrs Sagramore said, “but only the virtue of going for walks in dangerous high country.”

 

“It was hardly dangerous,” Arthur said. “I got distracted, that is all.”

 

“Well, since you can't possibly go again tomorrow,” Mr Sagramore told him, “how about coming to the Delphi excavation site with us? You promised the other day.”

 

Knowing that refusing would be extremely impolite, Arthur said, “I'll be there.”

 

“Cool,” she said. “And now let's dance.”

 

****

 

The sun was shining relentlessly over the stone benches of the theatre, baking the stone, colouring it with a golden glow. The wind lifted the dust off the ground, causing it to swirl in clumps that tickled the throat.

Adjusting his hat, Arthur descended the eroded steps and watched people ghost in and out of the ancient site, weaving among columns that formed the foundation of an ancient stage. 

To his left a tour guide was saying in a bright, clear voice, “The theatre over there was originally built in the in the 4th century BC, but the ruins you see actually date from the Roman period. The cavea had 35 rows of benches; now only a few remain. The foundations of the skene are instead still in good condition and you can admire them yourselves. They're located in the area that used to house the orchestra. The theatre itself was mainly active during the great festivals.”

Arthur's group milled from side to side of the ancient theatre. Tristan and Isolde were climbing the steps and had got to the topmost row, seeking seclusion from the others. Parasol propped on her shoulder, Vivian was strolling two and fro, frowning at her shoes, which had lost their shine thanks to the dust of the place.

Sagramore had made friends with three new people: a couple from northern England and a tubby man from northern Europe. They talked closely together and almost exclusively to each other. At times, Sagramore would burst out laughing at something his companions had said, and the sound of that laughter would echo right across the site. 

“And now,” the guide said, “let's move on to the Temple of Apollo. Before we do so though, let me explain some facts. This famous temple was built on the ruins of an earlier temple that goes back the 6th century BC. It was thought to be the seat of Pythia.”

“My God,” Sagramore said, “these Greek names. I can never tell when someone's supposed to be a boy or a girl. Like Brasidas. For example, tell me the difference with Briseis? And yet Viv tells me one of them was a girl.”

Stretching his stiff limbs, Arthur pushed off the stone seat. He kept the rear, letting Sagramore and his friends move forwards first. When he was virtually alone in the theatre, he took a moment to observe his surroundings. Shading his eyes against the glare of the sun, Arthur watched as the plateau blazed with light that spilled everywhere. It looked as if the terraces over which the site was distributed were drenched with honey, soft yellows that still burned the eyes. He squeezed them tighter but looked on, taking in the ruins of this ancient civilisation he knew so little about.

Something about this spot eluded him. It wasn't just his lack of factual knowledge, but a sense of what it was he was looking at that he hadn't grasped, a sense of history, a form of basic comprehension. He guessed he should try coming again later when he was alone. 

Having come to this conclusion, he left the theatre and followed in the footsteps of the group he'd half abandoned. He came to the temple itself and marvelled at its squat but dignified beauty, at its solemnity, its relationship with divinity. Steps led to a platform on which fat Doric columns stood in two rows. No walls or stairs had survived the ravages of time, so the columns tapered towards the heavens. 

Wanting to climb atop the structure, Arthur hastened. He couldn't see the spearhead of his group, but he could see the other stragglers. Harry Sagramore and his trio of friends had, like him, fallen behind and were only now catching up.

Arthur had nearly made it to them, when Sagramore approached a man that was standing among the ruins in his shirtsleeves, hat on his head, hands on his hips. “My good sir," Sagramore said, “this is the temple, right? The one they held the games in?”

As the man turned around, he revealed himself to be Merlin Emrys. “That is the temple of Apollo,” he said in confirmation, crinkles forming around his mouth as he gave a wry smile. “But they didn't host the games inside it. It was where the Oracle lived.”

Sagramore scrunched his face. “Oh, now that you make me think of it, this temple would have been too small to host the games. It's a bit disappointing as far as sights go. It's just a cluster of stones.”

“I don't think this place is quite as disappointing as you think,” Emrys said, his eyebrows converging. “The Oracle was a very special woman, you know, one who had political power.”

“Why don't you tell us more about that as you lead us inside?” Sagramore said, waving at the temple. “So we can envision that properly.”

Merlin hesitated. “I shouldn't do that. I'm not allowed.”

“Now don't be a wet blanket, of course you will, my friend!” Sagramore said. “It's your job.”

“Mmm.” Merlin shifted from foot to foot. “No?”

“You're a tour guide,” Sagramore said, in the form of a statement that brooked no argument. “So guide us.”

“I'm afraid I don't actually work for the site,” Merlin said, a conciliatory expression appearing on his face.

“But you were going on and on about the Oracle,” Mr Sagramore said, disputing the point. “You must be.”

“Oh, no.” Merlin crossed his hands in the air in a clear sign of denial. “I'm really sorry if I gave you the wrong idea, but I'm truly not.”

“Then how come you know all those details about oracles?” the tubby man in Sagramore's company asked.

“I read up about it,” Merlin said. “I'm a travel writer.”

“So it's is your job,” Sagramore insisted.

Arthur could see Emrys was floundering so he intervened. “Sagramore, let it go. The gentleman made it clear he doesn’t work at the site,” Arthur said, perhaps more harshly than he should have. “Let's go and catch up with the real site guide.”

Upon hearing Arthur's voice, Merlin lifted his chin. “Arthur!” he said, smiling. “I didn't see you there. What a coincidence.”

“You two know each other?” Sagramore asked, looking from one to the other of them. 

“Yes,” Arthur said, not quite sure he was speaking to Sagramore anymore. “I met Mr Emrys when I first arrived in Delphi. He was so kind as to point me in the right direction.”

Merlin's smiled widened; it went from polite to heart-warming. “I really felt like I had to.”

“Yes, thankfully, or I suppose I would have been utterly lost,” Arthur said, with a measure of self deprecation that didn't often make itself heard in his speech.

“Let's say that I enjoyed lending a hand.”

“Look, this is all so fine and dandy,” Sagramore interrupted them. “But who's to guide us? I don't see the woman who was leading us before.”

Arthur didn't say that that was because they'd wasted time pestering Emrys with questions. Instead he said, “If we hurry we can overtake the others.”

“But we have Mr... Merlin here,” Sagramore said, coaxing agreement from his three companions. “Why don't we let him guide us? It seems to me he knows his legends.”

“We can't impose on Mr Emrys in this way,” Arthur said, wincing.

Emrys swallowed, looked pinched about the mouth, but at Sagramore's insistence, he said, “No, I... I can take a walk around the ruins with you and tell you what I know, as long as it stays informal...” He threw a panicked glance at Arthur. “But we'll have to be very careful or they'll arrest me for impersonating a guide.”

“Don't worry,” Sagramore says lightly, “we'll bail you out if they do.”

Merlin grimaced at Arthur, but did start walking them around.

Merlin's knowledge of the site was quite extensive. Some of the facts he mentioned Arthur had heard here and there, either during his school days or more recently since coming to Greece. Merlin, in fact, described how the Oracles' trances were thought to have been induced – thanks to gases released through openings – and provided a detailed story of the location. But he also possessed much more in-depth knowledge. He could quote Herodotus, and went into depth about the nature of religious festivals in Greece. 

“They were a way for these people scattered around in their city states to communicate,” Merlin said, walking amid the columns, squinting up at them as his ribcage rose and fell in awe. “To keep in touch, maintain contact, and in that context, you see, the Oracle became very important, doing things like mediating truces and taking an active role in the politics of the day. But in order to do so she had to remain neutral, as far as she could. It was a strategic game of chess.”

“Interesting,” said Mr Sagramore though he didn't sound as convinced as he sounded bored.

Merlin's Thucydides quotes were what scattered Mr Sagramore and their friends. Mr Sagramore, in fact, claimed to have caught sight of his wife and stalked off, his companions in tow.

Merlin watched them go with a nonplussed air.

“I must apologise on their behalf,” Arthur said, as he and Emrys sat in the shade of a column. “They patronised you.”

Merlin took off his hat and laid it at his feet. “I'm working class, Arthur. I'm used to that.”  
Arthur's father would probably say that the working classes did indeed exist to benefit their 'betters'. Arthur himself had been raised in the belief that people like Merlin did rank a rung lower. But he found himself saying, “That's still wrong.”

“Oh,” believe me,” Emrys said, running the brim of his hat around his fingers. “I know that.”

“Then why did you let them behave like that?” Arthur says, nonplussed. Many people with a background like Merlin's accepted the status quo of things. You were either born in the ruling classes or you accepted a certain degree of condescension from your betters. But for Merlin to question that, and still act civilly was thought provoking. “It makes no sense.”

“I suppose I'm used I'm used to that,” Emrys said with a light shrug. “Besides, I'm also accustomed to spewing nonsense about historical places.”

Arthur winged his eyebrow. “How's that?”

“I'm a travel writer.”

“That doesn't sound like spewing nonsense,” Arthur said, studying Merlin Emrys face, trying to understand why he'd sound so dismissive of his calling. “But rather like divulging information, which is hardly ever nonsense.”

“I suppose I said that because my branch of writing is supposed to be functional, serve a purpose, which is,” Mr Emrys said, in the tones of someone who's gone over the subject often before, “informing the public. I must describe the beauties of landmarks without ever forgetting train timetables for example. I'm used to being asked for no more than that, the barest minimum of what I can deliver. It's... perfunctory, bordering on the nonsensical at times.”

Arthur nodded.

“You can probably see how that's considered less than literary too,” Merlin said, turning his hat this way and that.

“Maybe,” Arthur said, taking off his own head gear and setting it on the bare stones by his side, “but I've always maintained that if you do your best work, then your achievements should never be discounted.”

“That's surprisingly wise,” Emrys said.

“Did you think I was shallow?” Arthur asked, studying Emrys' profile.

Emrys made a big production of wincing. “Not wholly.”

“I know we didn't start out on the most felicitous of notes,” Arthur said, stretching his legs out so that they stuck out of the shadows and were bathed in the warmth of the sun, “But I'm not entirely uncouth, nor do I always keep the kind of company you saw me with.”

The sounds of insects whirred louder than Emrys' low, throaty humming. “You didn't make a completely negative impression either.”

With his foot Arthur displaced the gravel scattered on the uneven, worn out stones. “I'd love to make up for what I did wrong when we met,” he said, feeling the urge to because there was already so much in his life that had a less than positive connotation. “If I may?”

“And how do you propose to accomplish that?” Emrys said, the corners of his mouth lifting in a teasing smile. “I do wonder.”

Arthur adjusted his shirt, opening one more button at his collar. “Reparation dinner,” Arthur said quickly, without giving himself any time to consider what he was going to offer. “I'd like to treat you to dinner at my hotel.”

“Do I appear so destitute?” Emrys asked, his eyes disappearing in folds of wrinkles Arthur got momentarily lost in counting. 

“No,” Arthur said, his back stiffening. “It was a peace offering.” Dusting himself off, Arthur stood. “But if the offer isn't welcome--”

“I was merely teasing,” Merlin said, his face relaxing into a smile that was clearly meant to take no prisoners. “I'd be glad to accept.”

Hanging his head, Arthur slipped his hands into his pockets. He dug his heel into the ground and against the hard stone that had stood there for millennia. By doing so, he didn't mean to hesitate or to appear reluctant to make up for his faux pas, but he must have, because Emrys started speaking again.

“Unless of course, I've put you off entirely with my manners. I've been told I often do this, that I have little sense of propriety, that I should learn to interact better, socially.”

“You didn't say anything wrong,” Arthur hastened to say. “I read your intent wrong. I apologise.”

“So is the offer still valid?” Emrys asked, picking himself up and handing Arthur his hat, which he'd left on the ground. Or have I forfeited my claim to that dinner?”

Grabbing the dome of his hat, Arthur took it from Merlin, their fingers grazing. Arthur quashed his need to suck in a breath, and fixed his eyes on Mr Emrys' own. “Be at The Palace tomorrow night at half past eight.”

“I should now hold you in suspense and hold back on my answer,” Merlin said, watching him with a curious air about him. “But the truth is that I'm afraid I'll be there--”

Arthur donned his hat and touched its brim with two of his fingers, skewing it the slightest bit. “Well, see you soon then,” he said, with a small smile he had to fight not to make anything more, before stalking of to rejoin the others.

 

****

 

He followed the noise of the violins downstairs. Tonight the dining room was festively decorated, with rose and myrtle branches wound around the light fixtures, and flower wreaths draped over the balcony windows. The tables were decked with swags of evergreen boughs tied with red bows and arranged around vases that contained flowers just about to open, their velvet softness high-lit by the guttering light of a candle that painted the table cloth in amber shades. The still sultry night air streamed in through the open windows and played with the soft material of the curtains.

Not having expected such a change to the décor, Arthur swallowed but made his way to his table, bypassing a series of similar ones crowded by guests in their evening finery, stark jackets and silk dresses, pearls catching the light from the overhanging chandeliers.

Finding his table, Arthur sat down, acknowledging with an inclination of his head the members of Sagramore's party, which was larger tonight than on previous ones. Arthur had just fended off the waiter who, supposing Arthur would again dine alone, had come up to take his order, when Mr Emrys appeared at the other end of the dining room.

Tonight, Emrys was dressed more formally than Arthur thought was the rule for him. His suit had been ironed and his jacket sat upright on his shoulders. His shirt was an immaculate white, its collar open and neatly arranged over the lapels of his jacket. His trousers fit the spindly length of his legs. His shoes had been given a shine that lent them lustre. Even so there was a quality about this outfit – perhaps it was the cut of it – that spoke of hand me downs or thrift shop purchases. 

Merlin didn't exactly fit in with the crowd of the Palace Hotel. That didn't seem to faze Emrys in the least because after he'd sighted Arthur he crossed to the area where he was sitting, a lilting bounce to his steps. As he advanced, he held Arthur's gaze, a smile playing around the edge of his lips. “I hope I'm not too late,” he said, the divots on his cheeks deepening. “I swear I wasn't trying to do the fashionable thing.” He tugged at his cuffs. “That is--”

Arthur looked aside, barely capable to hide a smile he quickly covered up with a snort. “I don't think I've got you down as the type to try and do that.” He gestured at the chair opposite his. “Please, take a seat.”

Emrys pulled the chair out and sank into it. “You have probably pegged me as an unfashionable fellow anyway. And you wouldn't be wrong.”

“I saw you,” said Arthur. “Up in the mountains the other day. You weren't adhering to any fashion constrictions then.”

“Up in...” Emrys babbled until a flush licked at his ears. “I will have to plead guilty to that, I'm afraid. I was indeed there.”

To defuse the man's embarrassment, Arthur passed Emrys the wine list, and opened his own, skim-reading the entries while he occasionally flicked his companion a look. “What were you doing up there, if I may ask?”

Emrys ran his fingers along the rim of the wine glass. “I could turn the question around but since it is no secret I can freely tell you. I'm writing for Baedeker. A new guide to Greece. They asked me for a different take on an old theme so I decided I'd include alternative routes and tracks, inclusive of those up in the mountains.”

“So you are a man for unbeaten tracks?” Arthur asked, the peaks of his eyebrows arching.

Emrys shifted in his chair. “You could say that.”

Arthur was struck by the wistful tone of Emrys' tone, by that weary note in his voice. If he had been in London Arthur would have ignored it, considered it a quirk of the person he was dealing with and moved on, steered the conversation onto another – safer – subject. Here Arthur found himself wanting to theorise about his perceptions, to poke and prod. To get to know the person he was facing for who he really was. He'd just prepared another question when the waiter popped up again and diverted the conversation to wine and food choice.

By the time their orders were dealt with, Arthur felt it would be awkward to broach the topic they'd been discussing before. So when the waiter was finally gone, Arthur asked a brand new question, “Are you staying for long?”

“You mean in Delphi?” Emrys asked.

“I was thinking Greece,” Arthur said, positioning his napkin on his legs. “But your interpretation will do as well.”

“I've rented a flat,” Emrys said with an easy shrug. “The place might not be beautiful by any standards, or give you a taste of the beauties of Greece, but I've got this window, it's the smallest window ever, which gives you a sideways view of the temple of Apollo.”

“It seems you were lucky in your choice of lodgings.”

Emrys grinned quick and hard. “I do think I was.” He rearranged his glasses on the table. “See, every day I get to wake up to a view that reminds me of the great achievements of mankind, and also one that is so humbling it makes me think I'll never quite get to produce anything that memorable. But though the experience puts your skills in perspective, it's also energising. It spurs you to go for it and take risks with your... abilities and with your life. It gives you an outlook that may throw you in the path of... good things.”

Their orders arrived. As he ate, Emrys continued to philosophise but he never monopolised the conversation. He asked Arthur questions too, though Arthur could sense he was attempting not to be too blunt about them. 

Answering, Arthur picked his words carefully. He told Merlin that he was on holiday, that he meant to explore the country and find out more about it, in the hopes that the experience could be in some way formative.

“Oh, you're looking for your true self,” Merlin said, focusing on Arthur more intently. “I couldn't think of a more appropriate location for that. You know, Pausanias said was there was an inscription in the pronaos of the temple of Apollo here in Delphi. It apparently said, 'know thyself'.”

Arthur pushed his food around in his plate. “I'm not sure I have a right to use such words to refer to what I'm doing. You're making it sound much a much more interesting and deeper process than it probably is.”

“I think you can safely bring the big guns into play when it comes to embarking on a journey for self knowledge.”

Arthur huffed, warmth eating at his face. “You're doing it again. Ascribing this important meaning to my most random impulses.”

Emrys picked up his glass, which was full of a dark, blackberry-coloured wine that foamed into the glass, and caressed its sides. “Impulses, I believe, should always be followed. They are the guide to our true nature.”

Arthur cleared his throat and dropped his gaze. “Or perhaps they would just lead us to only follow our basest, lowest animal impulses.”

“You're judging 'nature' as intrinsically bad now,” Emrys said, tipping his glass to Arthur.

“I think,” Arthur said, trying to find the right words to build up his side of the argument, “that man has reason and should use it, not just elevate his natural instincts on the pretence they're innately good. They can also be negative.”

Emrys took a moderate sip of his wine, one that stained his lips a darker colour, until he sucked each into his mouth in turn, the flesh yielding and paling. “Not of the Rousseau school of thought then?”

“I believe that was a rather patronising school of thought.” 

“And you'd rather believe in control?”

“I'd rather believe I can control myself, so that can make choices that I consider good and morally valid,” Arthur said, with a certain kind of effervescent emphasis he couldn't quite modulate in the tone of sobriety he was striving for.

Bright splotches of colour burned across the tops of Emrys' prominent cheekbones. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to goad you into defending your moral stance.” His glance dropped to Arthur's plate. “I made you stop eating.”

“It's all right,” Arthur said, self-consciously forking his food but not lifting it to his mouth. “I was trying to explain my point and the food isn't so tempting tonight.”

“That's because it's meant for tourists.” Emrys winked knowingly at him.

Arthur sat back and looked down, laughing a little. “I suppose I was taken in then by the lures of the maître d'.” Lifting his gaze again, he said, “So I'll have to assume you no longer qualify as one, a tourist, I mean?”

“You never stop qualifying as one, I feel,” said Emrys musingly. He relaxed against the chair and looked Arthur up and down, with an amused glint in his eyes, as though he was laughing at himself or maybe at Arthur's perception of him. “But I've been living here for a year--” He brushed his knuckles against the curved translucent arch of the glass. “Well, I suppose that's not correct either. I have a flat in Athens too. Those are my headquarters, so to speak. I came out here for the book, but in the past few months I've gathered some specialist knowledge of Delphi in particular.”

Arthur watched the play of Merlin's tapered fingers as they moved along the glass with unconscious ease, and observed his sharp knuckles, his neatly trimmed nails, and the tracery of veins that climbed up to his wrist and disappeared under his cuff. As he took this in, Arthur wondered if Emrys perhaps was a pianist or if Arthur's fancy was just playing into stereotypes that had no grounds to exist. 

“I'm glad...” Arthur said, and then wanted to add, _that you're here and we could meet_ , but then he saw how inappropriate that would be, and said instead, “That you've become knowledgeable about the place.”

“Oh, yes,” Emrys said, his eyes dancing with a merriment that must have had a probable source in the wine, surely not Arthur's words. “I now know where to eat.”

“I suppose you've learnt to rely on more authentic fare?”

“Indeed I have.” Emrys studied him out of amused eyes, “I should take you sometimes. Just so you can say you've experienced the true local cuisine.”

Arthur's skin prickled with awareness, a certain tension teased to a flame by these small waves of static that licked at his spine. Swiftly, he downed the contents of his glass, then hailed the waiter for the dessert list. 

“You should,” he said, after a proper interval had passed and he was proffered the menu he'd asked for. “Take me, I mean. Now do you think we're safe to try the desserts?”

“I think we should be, yes,” Merlin said, in a voice that seemed to come from a great distance. Arthur wasn't sure if that was because Merlin was surprised at Arthur's answer or because Arthur was in such a strange mental place he wasn't all there tonight.

They finished their desserts quite quickly, the scrape of their tiny forks against the plate loud when drowned in the silence of their lagging conversation. When the last crumbs had disappeared from Emrys' plate, Arthur said, “Shall we have a glass of ouzo and call it a night?”

“By all means,” Emrys said, eyes cast down as he dropped his napkin on the table. 

The ouzo tasted like old penny candy, like liquorice, and childlike pastimes. Though it looked innocuous at first sight with its watered milk consistency, it had the kick of a mule. It warmed him though, from his throat and belly outwards, and made him forget all thoughts of uneasiness, of self-consciousness. 

“Shall we go?”

“I'm afraid it's time,” Emrys said, trying on a smile that wasn't as effervescent as the ones he'd flashed at Arthur before.

The night was as mild as the ouzo wasn't. The stars shone softly through a web of flimsy clouds. Moonbeams silvered the cobblestoned path ahead, while a breeze that had the twang of the sea and the sharpness of the mountains about it. 

“You don't need to escort me home,” Emrys said, the click of his soles tapping along the cobbles. “I know my way home better than you know the way to your hotel.”

Slipping his hands in his pockets, Arthur trod on. “I needed the exercise.”

“I see,” Emrys said in quiet whispered tones, tipping his head back. “The night is beautiful.”

“I thought you'd got used to them, here,” Arthur said. “No smog, less pollution... In London you forget about the beauty of nature.”

“I come from the country,” Merlin said, walking with his head cocked back to look at the sky. “I can't quite live without gazing up at the stars from time to time.”

“You're a poet then,” Arthur said, with little forethought yet stumbling on an intake of breath on Merlin's part that seemed fortuitous but wasn't quite. There was no answer on his part.

They proceeded along the narrow silent streets for a while longer. Then moon played hide and seek with them, seemingly dipping behind roofs and chimney stacks. They ducked under arches that threw a veil of darkness over their path and descended stairs whose steps were worn into grooves and cavities that felt slippery underfoot.

“Here I am,” Emrys said at last, when they'd chanced by a low door painted in a colour that would be light by daylight but that appeared grey in the current conditions. “Home – my home away from home at least.”

Arthur nodded. “Time to wish you a good night then.”

Emrys was unaware of the wash of light he stood in. It came from one of the windows above rather than the moon and made him all of a sudden appear worn down yet otherworldly. “Thank you for the dinner and apologies for being so boorish as to complain about its quality.”

“I had to make up for the appalling behaviour of my new acquaintances.”

Emrys inhaled with a sucking sound that had a remarkable sharpness to it. “You acquitted yourself beautifully.”

“And you weren't boorish at all,” Arthur said, reaching out to touch Emrys but ultimately not doing so for some reason.

Emrys reached backwards for the doorknob. “I'd love to think that was true. But we can't all be outstanding English gentlemen,” Emrys said, his mouth twisting sideways.

 _I was glad of your company_ , Arthur wanted to say, mostly because he was aware of all that Merlin hadn't said, but had left to be sussed out. But he didn't. He couldn't flay himself with such a truth. Besides he didn't want such an honest sentiment to be taken for a platitude. “Thank you,” he said instead, not sure what his gratitude was for exactly, but feeling he had to find something nice to say.

Head bent, Emrys mumbled something Arthur couldn't quite catch. It might have been acceptance of his thanks or a conclusive parting shot, Arthur didn't know.

Nevertheless, he came up to Emrys, bounding over so that he was standing on the same slope that flowed into the step leading to the door of Merlin's building. Thanks to the momentum spurred by his complete lack of calculation, he had moved so close to Emrys, Arthur could distinctly smell the night on the other man's skin. Emrys, for his part, faltered as though simultaneously walking into and avoiding the embrace Arthur wasn't yet sure he'd originally meant to offer. 

The intimacy of a full embrace averted for the moment, they danced out of the awkward position they'd flitted into, Arthur extending his arm and nearly fully circling Merlin's waist with it. He drew it down Emrys' back in half conciliatory fashion, in the way of a brusque and friendly pat, and found Emrys' body emanated warmth even through his clothes. ‘Good-night,’ he blurted out after a few seconds.

“Good Night,” Merlin said feebly, adroitly stepping backwards.

As Merlin's door clicked shut with the heaviness of wooden doors all over, Arthur stumbled off Merlin's doorstep.

 

Before going to bed that night, Arthur looked long and hard into the mirror.

 

**** 

 

At eleven, the town was busy. People hurried here and there, some carrying baskets of food, others empty-handed, but moving with a determination that said they had places to be. Tourists, recognizable by virtue of their straw hats and maps, camera straps looped around their necks and cutting into flesh or creasing the lines of their light dresses, roamed the streets and paused from time to time to take a photo of this sight or that picturesque piece of scenery.

As Arthur wove along the sun-spattered streets, his soles scuffed against the dust that coated the road. Whistling a tune he'd heard on the wireless, he took the steep alleyways at a swift pace and made the bookshop in good time. As he entered, the bell over the old wooden door chimed in an allegro that was like the laughter of children.

At the sound, the clerk looked up from the open ledger he was perusing, pushed his spectacles up his nose with two stiff fingers, and said, _“Kalimera, pos boro na sas voeetheeso?”_

“I'd like to buy some postcards,” Arthur said, tipping his hat at the stand he saw. “And I was wondering if you had the international edition of The Times perhaps?”

Sucking on his teeth, the clerk nodded. “There,” he said, pointing to a rack close to a series of bookshelves.

“Thank you,” Arthur said, tucking his hat under his arm, before moving towards the stand he needed.

The clerk went back to his job.

In a business-like manner, Arthur picked up copies of all English newspapers he could lay hands on. A few were American; others English. All were more than a week old, if not a month old, but Arthur had cut himself off from all kind of news while on his extended holiday, and while that had helped him breathe a little, he was long due an update. Next, he browsed the postcard section. Some cards featured vistas of the most famous Greek ruins, either in heightened colour or in black and white. Others were pastel sketches of Delphi. A bunch of them boasted sun-bathing pin ups wearing colourful swimming costumes – striped or polka dotted – and bright red lipstick. Rounded letters that said 'Greece' shone in a monochrome shine all over the upper left corner. Arthur picked a bunch of cards, those with the vistas mostly, and one of those that sported a sensuous pin up for Gwaine. With the bunch in hand, he moved to the counter.

Half way across to it, he passed a walled display of English guidebooks. Instead of proceeding to the till, he swerved and marched to the display. He ran his fingers along the spines of tomes bound in blue, red or green cloth until he chanced on a volume called Nagel's Guide to Great Britain, authored by one Merlin Emrys. On a whim Arthur took the book and opened it to a random page.

_There are only two railway stations at Monmouth so you won't have to be selective. Passengers for the famed Tintern and Chepstow however will find themselves compelled to change carriages if they want to reach Monmouth Troy itself. They will be rewarded though by the lovely view from Kymin Hill, which stands 700ft above the Wye. South East of it, lies the Buckstone, a rocking-stone, also know as the 'Logan Stone'._

_Monmouth is a good starting point for numerous delightful excursions. The tourist is advised to stop here on his descent of the Wye and to visit Raglan (Beaufort Arms), 7 M. to the S.W. - railway (G. W. R.) in ¼ hr.; fares 2s. 1d., 9d., 7½d._

_Raglan Castle, which is now a picturesque ruin, was erected in the 14-15th cent. In 1646 it was notably defended against the Parliamentarians by the Marquis of Worcester. The siege lasted ten weeks. The marquis was at that time in his 84th year..._

A smile quirked Arthur's lips. Allowing himself no time to think, he added the book to his purchases. 

With these articles bagged and paid for, Arthur went to a nearby café. He settled at a table placed on a deck outside. The table was set at a slight tilt on the sloping road so Arthur had to shore up his items against the napkin basket. As he flipped through the pages of his newspapers, he watched the morning bustle of the street, observed the locals as they retired under the porches of buildings to avoid the worst of the heat. Visitors, who were much more persistent, climbed towards the ruins. With the sun drenching down on him, his coffee tickling his tongue, Arthur compiled his postcards. The one he wrote his father was merely signed 'Arthur'. The one he meant to send Gwaine had a tongue in cheek scrawl on its back. 

To Mithian he wrote,

_Dear M,_

_I hope this finds you well. I've just finished reading a rave review of your play. It was in the Times, which I was lucky enough to find a copy of here. You have my deepest, warmest congratulations._

_I'm well myself. I think Greece suits me. I haven't had much time for thought, I believe. But I would know if I was in a bad way. Everything is very enjoyable here. The sun is shining, clouds are moving jauntily past, and the days are beautiful. They'll last as long as the summer does, I hope. After that... who knows what turns the weather will take and what I'll do.  
I'm including my address, but I have no way of knowing how long I'll stay put,  
Much love,  
A_

When Arthur was done, he footed the bill, carefully trying to make sense of the drachma coins in his pocket, picked up his things, and retraced his way to the hotel. He had almost made it to the descent that would lead him to its front entrance, when his eyes latched onto Emrys. He was sitting on a turnstile, legs spread wide, palms flat on his knee, his trousers riding up and showing a length of calf. As a concession to the weather, Emrys was wearing a white, short-sleeved linen shirt that sat large on him and was worn in places, hinting at the torso it clung to with the moistness of sweat. To add to the informality, he had no hat.

When he saw Arthur, his eyes brightened and he jumped off his perch. “I thought I'd catch you sooner or later.”

“Having you been basting there long?” Arthur asked, juggling his purchases, wishing for no reason at all that he could hide his copy of Emrys' guide book. 

“Not awfully long, but long enough to start naming the flowers sticking out of that wall,” Emrys said, lifting his chin in the direction of a clump of daisies. “By the way,” he added, cocking his head at the volume Arthur had stuck under his jacket, “that is hardly my best offering. You should have bought my volume about Southern France.”

Even though he went hot with embarrassment, Arthur couldn't help but release a small chuckle at Emrys' directness. “I will bear that in mind,” he said, slipping the book back out.

“You should.” Emrys danced from foot to foot. “Look, I came by to ask if by any chance you wanted to come and eat at this taverna I know. Seeing as your hotel's fare isn't the real thing?”

Arthur didn't need to take a look at his watch to know it was a little past midday. And he didn't have to think long before he answered. “I suppose I should experience some authentic cooking before I leave.”

“I definitely think you should.”

Emrys led him along a web of streets, some of which Arthur had never trodden before. 

Arthur walked with him through a market straggling a few yards of a narrow street. The stalls gave off sweet smells coming from the fresh product on display, lemons and almonds, thick oil kept in open jars, honey conserved in similar containers but that emanated a scent like that of flowers. People called out to each other from one end of the market to the other, the cacophony pleasant with the buzz of activity.

Much like the environment he was in, Emrys wasn't quiet either. On the way to the restaurant, he made small talk. He prattled about taking the coach to Galaxidi the day before and how special the town was, with its colourful façades, marble arches, and stone balconies decorated with figureheads. According to him, Agios Nicholaus was the most beautiful church in the area. “The icon screens alone are worth the trip.” When he was done describing his jaunt to Galaxidi – something he did by gesticulating expansively – he moved onto another topic, the people running the taverna they were about to see. “It's run by a Greek family. Bernard, the owner, does all the cooking, while his daughter Eleni keeps the books. There are a few waiters around as well. One of them is British actually, my friend Lancelot. You'll like him.”

“How come he works here?” Arthur asked, following Emrys dutifully around. 

“Oh, he married Eleni,” Emrys said. “He came over with the British Forces in '41 for Operation Lustre, left after the operation failed and he was redeployed, but came back for the girl he loved.”

“That is quite an epic story,” Arthur said, with a lift of his shoulder.

“You don't believe in romance then?” Merlin said, putting an arm on his shoulder, the pressure light and fugitive, to guide him towards a smaller side street.

Arthur could have answered that question in so many ways. He had married Gwen and had done it with hope, a belief in family values. He also held that sacrificing oneself for the people one loved made perfect sense. But considering all that had happened, Arthur wasn't certain he shared the same outlook as his younger self. Love didn't always conquer all, not even the flesh itself. “I don't discount love,” he said. “I'm just not sure we're all made to experience it in the same way, or as comprehensively as some.”

“Comprehensively, that's a rather odd choice of words, Pendragon,” Emrys said, before taking a left turn Arthur was surprised to find existed, because it gave access to the smallest street he'd ever clapped eyes on.

“Not really,” Arthur said.

“I find it is though.”

Arthur could have told Emrys that by saying comprehensively he'd meant completely, and in an all-encompassing way, but he had no opportunity to do so, partly because he'd hesitated and lost his momentum, so that saying what was on his mind might seem odd at this point, and partly because they had got to the restaurant.

The taverna was located on the outskirts of the village, standing apart from a cluster of whitewashed houses, huddled at the foot of one of the roads that lined the mountain. Its façade was country style, covered with an arbour. The courtyard outside was paved with flat stones. Closer to the walls a number of wooden tables had been arranged. All of them were covered with chequered cloths. Some had been placed in a long line under a striped awning so that people belonging to the same group could eat together. Others were in a single line. Mostly the place seemed to Arthur to be crowded by old farmers too proud to take an interest in tourists, and local jobbers who were on their break.

Emrys and he had just crossed half the courtyard on the lookout for a table, when a waiter emerged from inside the eatery, bearing fresh bowls of salad in each hand. When he saw Mr Emrys, he dumped the bowls on the nearest table, one occupied by two weathered octogenarians, and bounced over to Merlin, hugging him tight and clapping him on the back as he did so. “Ah, Merlin,” the waiter said, “it's been weeks.”

“I've been writing, Lance,” Merlin said, returning the embrace with vigour. “I have deadlines.”

After one more, sound slap on the back, Lancelot let go of Emrys. “Should I tell Bernard you're here? He'll whip up a special menu for you.”

Emrys' eyes formed into little slits surrounded by a tracery of slight, mobile wrinkles. “Ordinarily I'd tell you not to bother, but this time I've brought a friend so I'm going to ask you to do your best. It's his first time in the country.”

It was then that Lance noticed him. “In that case we'll prepare a feast you won't be able to forget.”

Lancelot escorted them to one of the free tables still available on the outside patio. Because it was baking hot, Arthur shed the jacket he had clung to over the cooler hours of the morning and draped it over the back of his wooden chair. 

“I was wondering when you'd do that,” Merlin observed, sprawling sideways in his chair, so he had a view of the courtyard and the patrons. 

“I don't like to look unkempt,” Arthur said, fiddling with his collar, “but I can make concessions for the climate.”

“Sometimes it's fun to let oneself run the littlest bit wild,” Merlin said, with a twinkle in his eyes that wasn't teasing and wasn't merriment, but something else entirely that Arthur decided he wouldn't parse at all.

“I usually wouldn't agree.”

“But you will today.”

“I'm deviating from my routines, aren't I?”

“I'll say I'm honoured.”

Arthur felt the blush rise on his cheeks, his mouth opened, and he spluttered a little but managed no objection. “Yes, well.. I...”

Merlin's eyes sweetened. He smiled. “Oh, look, I know that stray. Lancelot feeds him every other day.”

Arthur exhaled with relief, gratitude.

By and by the food came. Lancelot and an older man with a clean-shaven sunburnt face Arthur assumed to be Bernard came out bearing multiple trays. On them were a variety of dishes, chock full of food. There were portions of horta vrasta, traditional chicken soup, chicken pie, souvlaki, golden egg bread, a thick, redolent stifado, as well as dips and sauces. Arthur was sure they couldn't possibly eat all that, but when Emrys tucked in, he started to suspect that they could put a dent in the seemingly endless reserve of food. 

Between one dish and the next Lancelot and Bernard took turns at their table, making small talk with Emrys. When the latter appeared, the conversation took place in Greek. Arthur gathered that the chatter didn't only encompass food but more personal matters as well.

Because they were so busy with the other tables, the owners didn't stay long, only a few minutes here and there, and otherwise left Emrys and Arthur to their own devices. But this wasn't a problem. The conversation between them never dwindled, no matter whether it was about the food, their tastes in general, or whether they missed home. 

“Do you?” Emrys asked, breaking his bread.

“Not as such,” Arthur said, reflectively, allowing himself to be quite honest about this. “I've left behind a complicated situation. But there are places and friends that I do find myself missing from time to time.” Arthur spooned a chunk of meat. “What about you?”

“I had reason to leave,” Emrys said, biting at the lamb speared on a skewer. “So there. But there's something I do miss, a view from my old home. Before I ever made it to London and its chaos of loneliness. It was... I haven't found another one like that. But then again I think my preferring it to others may be more a predilection of the heart than an objective opinion.”

“I do believe that those predilections are just as valid.”

“Oh yes,” Emrys said, dabbing at the sauce smearing his lower lip. “They are.”

The sun waning away from its zenith, they talked about everything and nothing. The conversation might not have been momentous yet Arthur felt he was getting a clearer idea of who Emrys was, or at least a sense for his humour, his quick wit. Emrys would take something in calmly, seemingly consider it, and then crack a joke about the very thing they'd been discussing. Or he would present Arthur with a new point of view, one that only made sense if contemplated from this weird, skewed perspective of his: a brave, yet mad one. Arthur would find himself quite enticed, quite persuaded, and wouldn't be sure whether Emrys was having him on or not. Either way he was an excellent devil's advocate. 

They laughed and they passed each other their food with their fingers, pieces of bread dipped in sauce, and chunks of meat ripped right off the skewer and then coated in condiment. 

At one point Emrys faltered and lost his grip on a tendril of lamb that landed right on the top quadrant of his shirt. Looking down at the stain, Merlin went cross-eyed and said, “Clumsiness, thy name is Merlin.” He stood. “If you don't mind, I'll nip into the toilets to give this a wash.” Trotting down a set of stairs that led inside the tavern, Merlin disappeared.

A minute or so after he had, Lancelot plonked down in Merlin's place. “I hope you like our food.”

Since a good number of the dishes that had been set on the table were half empty now, Arthur could safely say that he liked the fare. “Indeed.” He cocked his head at the trays of food. “It was all excellent.”

An easy smile came onto Lancelot's face. “My father-in-law puts his all into this. He loves cooking.”

“I think his love for food shines through his dishes.”

“Yes,” Lancelot said, giving the table spread a contemplative look before he said, “That's why Merlin comes here. Well, from time to time at least. We're friends.”

“I think I realised,” Arthur said, tilting his head.

“Yes, well,” Lancelot said, shrugging, but also subtly tensing. “Merlin can really win people's loyalty.”

“There is something about him, yes,” Arthur conceded, measured, not dismissive, not nonchalant, not quite as vocal as he might have been either.

“Mmm,” Lancelot said, apparently agreeing, though he never stopped studying Arthur. “That's not something a lot of people get, that's not something I thought someone like you would understand.”

Arthur didn't know how to react to the man's scrutiny, or to his words for that matter. “I guess you find it awfully important I appreciate that point.”

“Yes, because Merlin is a friend,” Lancelot said, sliding forward till he was tipped on the edge of his seat. “And he has a heart of gold. He likes playing the fool but there's more to him than that, more wisdom and more of a capacity to appreciate pain than you'd believe possible. ”

An eyebrow going up, Arthur said, “I don't get how this relates to me.” 

“I thought it might.”

Arthur made a blank face. 

Lancelot's passed a finger along the collar of his shirt. “Oh, I suppose then... Forget I said anything.”

“No, wait,” Arthur said, the glimpse into Merlin Emrys Lancelot was offering tantalising to him, the urge that he had in the pit of his stomach telling him he should find out more – however impolite pressing was – about this easy going yet somewhat mysterious man he'd just met. “It's pretty clear you had something in mind when you approached me.”

Lancelot rose to his feet and said, “Perhaps, yet I think I spoke too much already. But do enjoy your meal.”

Arthur stared perplexed at Lancelot's retreating form, knowing he had stumbled onto something he wanted to investigate. He was aware he couldn't. Good manners, propriety even, forbid he questioned his new acquaintances. Still, his skin prickled with curiosity. 

It did so until Emrys came back, his shirt wet and sticking to his pectoral muscles, the fabric looking thinner now that it was soaked. Arthur lost the will to pursue his investigation, something about Merlin's easy smile and accommodating nature erasing most conscious thought from Arthur's mind. It was just as well. Arthur knew how precious secrets could be.

“I think I got the stain out, though I'm not good at domestic chores,” Merlin said, with a quick roll of his eyes.

“It looks fine,” Arthur said. He cleared his throat before lifting his gaze to meet Emrys'. “Perfectly fine.”

Though they had probably eaten more than they should have, they took a stab at dessert too. As they finished stuffing themselves, the early afternoon slipped by. It was nearly five when they left the restaurant – without paying because, Lancelot had made it clear, Merlin was a friend and you didn't charge friends. 

In the slanting afternoon light they took a walk to work off the excess food. They didn't say much. Arthur observed the wisps of clouds that seemed to stretch at the base of the mountain, while Emrys kept pace. At one point he told Arthur to call him Merlin and Arthur agreed it would be a good idea. After all Arthur couldn't come up with any reason to keep his behaviour so formal. 

On their way back to Arthur's hotel, Merlin smiled to everyone he recognised, and even at objects that seemed to please him, like some of the icons that graced a market stall, but even if his gaze roamed away he kept catching Arthur's eye from time to time. 

At length they got to Arthur's hotel. 

Arthur was sticking his hand out to shake Merlin's, when Harry Sagramore stumbled into the courtyard, nose red, jacket missing, his gait rolling. “Pendragon,” he said, slurring his words. “A pleasure to see you around!”

Arthur acknowledged him with a a quick tilt of his head. “Mr Sagramore.”

“And,” Sagramore said, waddling over to Merlin and squinting in his face. “You're with that queer tour guide from the temple. From the temple with the crone...”

“The Oracle,” Merlin said.

“Yes, the Oracle.” Sagramore wagged a finger in Merlin's face. “The Oracle.”

“Weren't you perhaps going to your room?” Arthur told Sagramore, hoping the man would relieve them of his presence. “I think the heat may have taken a toll on you.”

“The heat?” Sagramore laughed. “Say rather that horrible honeyed liquor I drank.”

“Then perhaps you'd better go and have a lie down,” Arthur said, steel in his voice even though his words were couched in the style of a suggestion.

“I will,” Sagramore said, his noise up in the air like a hunting dog's. “I will.” He disappeared back into the hotel.

“Well,” Merlin said. “I suppose it's time for me to go home. I've probably been very remiss and monopolised all your afternoon.”

“You weren't.” Arthur hadn't even noticed the time passing. “You didn't.”

“Well, then,” Merlin said hesitantly. “I'll see you around...”

“Yeah.” Smiling softly, a little hesitantly, Arthur backed towards the hotel. “You know where to find me.” 

 

*****

_My dear Arthur,_

I am at work, sitting in my dressing room right before the matinee. Usually, round about this time, I go over my lines before the crew has a go at my make up, have a coffee, or if I'm extremely nervous because I know there's going to be a critic in the audience, have a smoke. But today I just fancied writing to you and, since I have no writing paper I shall have to make do and squish my musings in my notebook. I'll copy it all on proper letter paper tonight once I'm home.

It seems such a long time since I saw you, though I know it's only been a month. I do hope that you haven't forgotten me. 

Lately, James Lamorak has been courting me, You probably know him since he says you were together at Rugby. As you may know, Lamorak is a rather persistent fellow with the face of a puppy and the manners and mind set of an old man. For some reason he has found quite a voice as a playwright (though, between you and me, he tries frightfully hard to imitate Rattigan) and has thus found his way into my circle. We seem to have many common friends and all of them seem to highly respect him though I'm sure sometimes I can't fathom why. He clings ever so awfully. Anyway to make the guy – and via him our common friends happy – I decided to countenance him for a while. It was for this reason that I told him that we should spend a weekend afternoon together and drive out into the country.

This was some two weeks ago.

Last Sunday, he picked me up at mine. He was sitting behind the wheel of his convertible, aviators perched on his nose, a scarf twice wound around his neck. When he saw me, he unfolded himself from his seat and opened the door for me. 

“How very chivalrous,” I said, knowing full well I shouldn't poke fun at him.

James, bless him, took this quite straightforwardly, and said, “I'd do this and more for such a dear friend.”

I tilted my head and said, “That's very kind.”

We both got in his car. You'd like it, I think. It has soft leather seats and champagne paint work. Once we got out of the city it drove like a charm too. 

The landscape rolling around us was quite enticing with fields forming criss-crossing patterns that evoked a sense of nice rural order. The sun kept shining over us. The drive was quite pleasant even if the company wasn't equally so.

James and I had been silent ever since leaving the smog of London behind, but once the air got more breathable, James asked, “So where do you want me to drive you?”

I didn't want to keep James in suspense so I told him the truth. “We're going to Dorking.”

James gave me a sideways look. “And may I ask why?”

“To see a new friend,” I said, opening my handbag to extract a few pins to tie my hair up. Convertibles do have their downsides. “You know her husband – or ex husband – Arthur Pendragon.”

James said, “Oh, Pendragon,” and gave a little cough that didn't please me at all.

I pressed. “What do you mean 'oh Pendragon'?”

“Just that he was,” James said, lips shunted leftwards, but then trailed off again.“Nothing.”

“Nothing what?”

“Just nothing,” James said, frowning. “He was good chums with Aston and Balan back at Rugby.”

This told me little, since I barely know one of the men mentioned and the other not at all. So Lamorak told me a story about you being a bit of a stick in the mud back in those days. He mentioned you being obnoxiously competitive and he referenced a disagreement over sports. He seemed rather vague. You would know better than I what your relationship with him was, but I still think he bears some animosity towards you. In any case there was something more to the story he was supposedly telling that he didn't say. However, after reminding him that you were my best friend in the world, he shut up completely. After that I let it go. I couldn't force him to say what he didn't want to and by then we had got to the outskirts of Dorking. 

The countryside around it is lush in the summer. Gentle hills rolled away on either side of the motorway and in the distance I could make out these fluffy white creatures that moved at a slow pace across the grass like puffy clouds drifting on a breeze. As I enjoyed the view, I temporarily forgot everything about my companion, until at least I was forced to give him the directions.

Elyan's was a rustic house nestled among trees, below the crown of a little hill. It was square and a little squat, with a overhanging thatch roof, the stone weathered to a dull rose, the wooden fixtures trimmed in bright white paint with flourishes of Victorian millwork. All windows were framed against sunlight. All in all it seemed like quite an idyllic refuge.

James and I found Gwen, her brother, and a man who was later introduced to me as Leon Knightley in the back garden. “Quite the wonderful place you've got here,” I told Elyan. 

“I like it here,” he said with an unselfconscious shrug. “It's better than my parent's place in London. Sometimes it's draughty though.”

“Don't listen to him,” said Gwen, playfully slapping her brother's arm. “He's quite humble about it but this place was a barn before he came along and renovated it. It's so pretty now but you wouldn't have thought it if you'd seen it when Elyan first moved in.”

“I bet that's quite the renovation you conducted here,” James said, enthusiastically canvassing this topic after his faux pas about you in the car. “This place now looks like a fairytale cottage.”

“Well, thank you. I'm sure I don't deserve all these compliments, but I'll accept them,” Elyan said, politeness marking his tone. “After we've had tea, I'll show you around.”

“That will be my pleasure,” James said. “I've always been keen on renovations and home improvement.”

Tea and biscuits were served in the garden. It might as well have been high tea at Fortnum and Mason's, there was such a variety to be had. We had had scones, pastries, sandwiches and an assortment of cakes as well as some strawberries. The strawberries were a rich red and covered in honey, while the pastries had a golden glaze to them and a marvellous aroma. Gwen had made them all. 

“I buttered the sandwiches,” Leon said, trying to lay a claim to all this glory. “It was hard work.”

“Fie,” Gwen said, smiling at him brightly, “it hardly was.”

“There were lots of slices to be buttered,” Leon said, pushing his eyebrows up somewhat comically.

“I would have understood your reasons for complaining if I had set you slicing cucumbers, but this?” Gwen blew air through her mouth. “It's quite a light job.”

“Yes, I'm the one who was stuck with the cucumbers,” Elyan said, snorting through his nostrils.

James said something about men usually being a disaster in the kitchen, a comment no one paid heed to, thankfully.

I had no will to reprimand him and by that time I was already gorging myself on these delicious puff creams and definitely not thinking about James. 

When tea was done with, Elyan took James for a tour of his cottage, Leon coming with, while Gwen and I took a walk.

The groves that blanketed the hill Elyan's cottage was built on seemed to roll towards the horizon and to be showered in summer's dew. Sky, cloud, and horizon formed one dainty veil of china blue. The beauty of this scenery was quite breath-taking and that was what I told Gwen.

“I needed it,” she said, taking my arm. “I went to my parents at first, but London was too much for me. The hustle and bustle, the grey rainy days. People poking their noses in, regretfully telling me how sorry they were my marriage had failed, and me so young.”

“I wouldn't listen,” I told her. “That's what I do every time someone has something malicious to say about me.”

“You must think I'm not brave?” Gwen asked, her brow creasing, her mouth pursing in its wake. “That I'm paying too much attention to gossip, what people think of me?”

“No.” I really didn't know how Gwen had got that idea from me. “I think you were wise coming here. This place is, after all, beautiful and soothing.”

“Elyan was kind to offer.”

“I wish you had a brother like that,” I said, because in that moment I was stung by a slight pang of jealousy. “But, it was not to be.”

“Isn't Arthur something like that to you?”

I smiled at that, Arthur, because although I had never thought about you like that before, I quite liked the light this cast you in. “Perhaps. I'm not sure he'd like the honour, but he's certainly a dear, dear friend to me.”

“Not like Mr Lamorak at all,” she said, with a twist of her mouth.

“Thankfully not like him at all.”

We walked down the hill for a while in silence, my leather heels getting wet at the tip and sides. It was all very tranquil. A breeze rustled the grass and birds chirped in the trees. The rich sun shone on. At last, though, Gwen broke the silence. “He sent you here, didn't he?”

“Not to spy on you,” I was quick to say, because she might think I had had ulterior motives to ask if I could see her. “About the financial settlement or anything.”

“But to check on me?” Gwen said, squeezing my arm as she lead me back uphill. “Surely that.”

“He just wants to know that you're fine,” I said. “And that you're not lonely.”

Her face gentled. “Arthur's always been so chivalrous.”

“Yes, he has.”

“He puts others before him a lot of the time,” Gwen continued in the same strain. Her mouth tightened then. “Though he can be quite dishonest.”

I stiffened all over and was ready to fly to your defence, saying, “Arthur isn't like that at all,” when she gently hushed me.

“He'd be quite happier if he started to look fully into himself, if he opened up,” Gwen said, her voice full of emotion – I suspected sorrow and regret – “it's a lesson I've had to learn myself. But now that I know...”

“Now that you know?” I prompted.

“Now I wish Arthur would just learn to accept those parts of himself that he doesn't quite think as befitting him, in the way his father and Rugby taught him.” Gwen fetched a sigh. “Please do tell him that I said that. I think it would do him good to hear it.”

“I'll write to him soon.”

And this, dear Arthur, is what I'm now doing. I thought the message was worthy enough to be passed on. As for the rest of my outing to Dorking, not much needs to be said. We stayed all afternoon until the sky started to pink up in the west. Since I had a matinee to attend on the following Monday, James and I left, though before I climbed into his car, Gwen came out with a basket. “For you,” she said. “Since you liked them so much.”

“Thank you, Guinevere,” I said, grabbing the basket. I felt quite inordinately moved even though it was only a hamper of food. “I don't know what to say.”

“Say nothing,” she said, closing her hand on top of mine on the handle of the hamper. “Just consider this an early offer of friendship.”

“I will,” I said, nodding my head.

Gwen retreated towards the house and she watched us drive off, standing between her brother and Leon Knightley, the glow from the house highlighting their figures even though it was getting dark outside.

And that's the end of my Sunday adventure to Dorking. 

I have still a lot to say, but unfortunately, Drea, my lovely make-up artist, has barged in with all the tools of her trade. 

So I think that's all for the moment. Before the matinee tomorrow I'll totter off to the post box and mail this. I am looking forward to hearing from you quite soon, Arthur, even though you have no time for me now that you're surrounded by the beauties of Greece, so until then, cheerio, my friend.

Yours, M.

PS: I guess I should say Gwaine also sends his love. He was adamant I mention him if I wrote to you and was quite cheesed off you only forwarded your address to me. (Though to be quite honest, I don't really think he is as miffed as he claims to be, considering he's going out with a dancer from Brighton.)

A flood of mid-morning sunlight poured into his hotel room, dust hanging in the air on the wings of its pink brightness. Arthur's hand rested nervelessly over the folded paper of Mithian's letter, all his tension resting at the core of his body, in his middle, in his chest, where his heart was sprung in a cage. In his desk drawer, he found some writing paper, and an old fat black pen that lay on the worktop, missing its cap. He tried it once, and found it wasn't dry though it spurted some ink initially. Once the pen had stopped jamming, he started writing with more rapidity. When the tip spluttered ink again, he stopped, pinched his nostrils, sighed and closed his eyes. “At least, Gwen is fine,” he said to the loneliness surrounding him. He tried writing again, the pen tracing words on paper, but none of the ones that came to him made any sense. 

Arthur stopped again. He told himself that the sunlight was bothering him and that was the reason why he couldn't concentrate on a coherent message, but then he remembered the words Gwen had said, the words she had had Mithian expressively convey to him, and he admitted to himself that she was right.

He was encased in armour, like a knight, but not one seeking to do battle, rather one tossed by his horse at a ford, drowning in the muddy waters of a fast churning river. This armour, this cage of steel, made him unable to reach inside himself or reach outward. It made him a prisoner of himself.

The phone rang and shook him out of his reverie.

 

*****

 

“Mr Pendragon,” the receptionist said, “there's a call for you. Will you accept it?”

“Yes,” said Arthur, grabbing the receiver tight. “I'm going to take the call in the lobby.”

Arthur hung down, made sure to get his room keys, and jogged downstairs. His hands were slightly unsteady when he picked up the receiver.

“Arthur!” Merlin's bright voice said. “How are you?”

Arthur took it as the social cue this was and said, “Fine. A little sunburned perhaps.”

“Then it's a good thing it's cloudy today,” Merlin said affably, the line crackling the littlest bit. “A really good thing. For your nose. Because I'm sure you wouldn't want it to get to the peeling off stage.”

“No, I don't think I'd would like that,” Arthur said, leaning against the partition of the phone booth. “Not at all.”

“Look,” Merlin said, humming under his breath, “I'm going to Amfissa the day after tomorrow and I was wondering if you wanted to come?”

“Aren't you going for professional reasons?” Arthur asked, knowing that Merlin's trips were motivated by a need to hunt down material for the book he was commissioned to write.

“Yes,” Merlin answered him quickly. “But my job is experiencing things and reporting about them. Having a companion is by no means forbidden. If you want to come at all, of course.”

“I do want to come to Amfissa.”

“See you tomorrow then,” Merlin said breathily, a little sound like the beginning of a chuckle rounding off his delivery.

“Tomorrow.”

There was a medieval castle in Amfissa, built on the ruins of an ancient temple. It was squat, monolithic, and brown, nestled on top of a hill, its foundations meshing with the rock at its base. Nature had taken over around it and trees sprouted in different shapes and sizes at the back, front and sides of it. 

On their climb up the hill, Merlin recited facts about the structure to him. 

Though he was busy toiling up the uneven terrain, gingerly putting one boot in front of the other, Arthur paid attention to him, not so much to the wealth of information Merlin was providing, which was interesting but not riveting, as to his voice while doing so, his manner, the way he strung words together. The more Arthur listened, the more he wondered about the person Merlin was, his personality, the light that shone bright in him. He tried to gauge him, get a sense of him.

“A lot of what you see is part of the keep the Franks built,” Merlin said, chin in the air as he waved his hands at the castle, his foothold precarious since he wasn't using his upper body for balance at all. “Which probably should serve to remind us that Greece is much more than the country of classical antiquity and ancient city states, as a lot of travellers seem to believe. It's as though somewhere along the way their thinking gets bogged down by stereotypes that--” Merlin stumbled, but caught himself without any help, finding another viable path as soon as it became clear the one he was on was too fraught with obstacles to get him to the top. “--are quite arbitrary. Still, that's not what I really think when I see the castle. I mean that's only one consideration, not the main one. See, I find myself thinking about how life used to be in those castles, with war preying on the every day life of the people there. Wondering about the pulse of time.”

“Which isn't a consideration you can stick into a guide book,” Arthur said. “But I'm sure it might make for good fiction.”

“I wouldn't write about that topic if I was writing fiction,” Merlin said quickly, as though the words were burning his lips. “If I was to write fiction, I'd write about... revelations.”

Lifting his face into the sun, Arthur hopped onto a bigger boulder. “Like in the Bible?”

“No,” Merlin answered him, stopping mid motion as if he needed to give his explanation all his attention. “Revelations of a personal nature, moments of clarity.”

Arthur studied Merlin's profile, the rectilinear cast of his nose. “It might be that my brain cells are otherwise engaged, but I'm not sure I have this down.”

“Small epiphanies that you get doing simple things,” Merlin said, resuming his climb, his shoulders hunched, his boots leaving prints on the softer ground bridging the gap among the rocks. “Living your life day to day.”

“You speak as though,” Arthur said, his breathing coming faster now, the ascent taking its toll, “you've had some revelations of that nature yourself.”

Merlin stopped and rubbed at the small of his back. “I had to come to terms with myself, yes, in small but essential ways.”

“Don't we all, at some point or another?” Arthur asked, zeroing in on Merlin's face, studying it for tics, the answer he was waiting for so eminently important to him that he needed to analyse Merlin for revelatory gestures.

“Yes, it's part of the human condition,” Merlin said, not looking at him, but rather at the bulk of the castle above them. “But I do think some of us need to look deeper into ourselves. Some of us need to learn better discernment.”

“To better fit into society?” Arthur asked.

Merlin's head whipped in his direction. His eyes held surprise in them but then they softened with, Arthur thought, a measure of pity. “To find happiness.”

“And have you?” Arthur asked, his breath stopped at the mouth of his lungs. 

“I think,” Merlin said, his eyes boring into Arthur with such truthfulness Arthur wasn't sure he could stand the power of that gaze. “I've found glimpses of it.”

His heart beating into a disarray of sound, Arthur nodded to himself.

Merlin echoed his movement.

Briefly they plunged into silence, then Merlin popped his joints, said, “We should get going,” and continued his ascent.

Deep in thought, Arthur followed him, his jaw clenched together. At last, they sat in the shadow of a ruined battlement, the russet earth at their feet staining their trousers and sticking to the soles of their boots, the modern town of Amfissa sprawling at their feet, the light of the setting sun colouring it amber.

 

*****

 

The ground sloped downwards and dipped for a span, before rising to a fairly high ridge. Below this ridge was an escarpment that dropped about two feet. From the bottom of this second incline the valley spread below; flowering myrtle bushes and other shrubs mingled with denser lower-ground vegetation, the feathery evergreens that covered the undulating countryside.

Past this stretch, they came onto the track, and Arthur asked, “So where are you taking me today?”

“I think I gave you more than a fair hint,” Merlin said playfully, the side of his mouth lifting. 

“You told me to bring a torch,” Arthur said, lifting the tool, and trying it, the light it shed cancelled out by the brightness of the day. “It doesn't help much when it comes to clues.”

“It actually does,” Merlin said, smiling knowingly, with a little edge of provocation to it.

“Now, now,” Arthur said, rising to the challenge, “that's not true and you know it.”

“Fact is,” Merlin said, “you're just not showing your acumen at the moment.”

“I'll have you know I'm very bright.”

“Words, words,” Merlin said, negotiating a rise, climbing with the ability of a goat in spite of his less than athletic build. 

“When I worked for the government, I was highly respected by my colleagues,” Arthur said, happy to mention a factoid about his former life that he was proud of. His job hadn't been particularly exciting but no one had ever said he didn't know how to do it.

“When you worked?” Merlin asked. “That's a meaningful choice of words.”

“I left my job,” Arthur said, overtaking Merlin. 

The russet, dry ground rose steeply, but nearby was an old trail Arthur decided would be easier to negotiate.

“Wait, wait,” Merlin said, his breath heavy as he came level with Arthur. “I thought you were on holiday or on some kind of sabbatical.”

“No,” Arthur said, treading onto the loose gravel that lined the edge of the path. “I resigned.”

“Why?” Merlin asked, his eyes keen on Arthur's profile, burning Arthur's face with their solicitude.

“Because I didn't fit in any more,” Arthur said, after he'd expelled a big breath. “Because my life changed and I felt I needed to change with it.”

Merlin stopped, causing Arthur to do the same. “An epiphany then.”

“One called divorce,” Arthur said, though he hadn't planned to tell Merlin his life story. “I mean...” he tailed off, the sounds of the mountain drowning his breathing. “Life happens and life changes you. Divorce does, most certainly.”

“I'm sorry you had to go through that,” Merlin said, placing his hand on Arthur's shoulder, the weight of it and the warmth of it seeping right into Arthur's consciousness, stealing his breath more than the climb. “I don't know what to say.”

“There's nothing to say,” Arthur said, over the cacophony of his blurring thoughts. They were burning thoughts, igniting his mind into a state of confusion, making his heart clench in short spasms that had a taste of pain to them. And one of joy, indescribable, vital joy. “I had to change.”

“And find another mould for your soul,” Merlin said, flushing, looking down to his hand on Arthur's shoulder and dropping it. “What I meant was that you probably felt you'd have to start again.”

Arthur cracked a smile, one that started small, only lifting a corner of his mouth, and that ended up encompassing his whole face. “I liked your flowery description better.”

“I'm not into flowery descriptions,” Merlin said, his protest clearly deliberately high-pitched.

“You were as flowery as a romantic poet sighing his laments into the wind,” Arthur said, giving Merlin a slight shove.

Merlin returned his shove in kind, unbalancing him just a little. For his part, Arthur put more effort in his next attempt. Merlin huffed and he started again, grabbing Arthur by the middle, until Arthur nearly tackled him, holding him by the neck and causing him to double over, Arthur's own body curved around Merlin's. At this point – breathless, his face stretched into a smile that was so wide it became gummy, the crinkles around his eyes increasing by the dozen – Merlin wheezed, “Race you there.”

“Race you where?” Arthur shouted his hands up in the air as Merlin sprinted forward.

“To the Corycian Cave,” Merlin yelled back as he climbed the plateau with a swiftness Arthur hadn't given him credit for. “And I'll get there first.”

Feet finding purchase, Arthur ran until the blood pounded quickly and powerfully in his veins, his breathing became belaboured, and his exhales like little strangled huffs, like wind soughing through molasses. When he got to the opening of the cave, he doubled over, just like Merlin had, and shared a grin with him.

“Ready for our adventure?” Merlin said, a little raspy, in tones that tugged and pulled at Arthur's insides, loosening them. 

A ball of raw energy glowed inside him and caught him up in a whirl of frenzied, joyful expectation. It made him feel exactly as he had as when, as a child, he had set off on an adventure that involved roaming the estate when no one was the wiser as to his whereabouts. Arthur said, “Yes, absolutely.”

“Then,” Merlin said, clicking the torch on, “prepare to behold the Corycian cave, sacred to the nymphs and the god Pan.”

“Should I think that all sorts of profane rituals took place here?” Arthur said, with a clap of laughter, his voice echoing as it penetrated the interior of the cave. His face burned with a thrill that stretched his skin thin, so thin he thought it had become see-through, allowing Merlin a glimpse of what was inside him, of his naked self. “Erotic orgies fuelled by hungry satyrs?”

In the semi-obscurity of the cave, Merlin's profile appeared starker, clearly etched in black and whites, absence of colours and quick furtive snatches of light. The side of his mouth lifted, curling into his cheek and forming concentric dimples, shadowed into a smudge. “I like the way your mind works, Pendragon. Leave it to a public school boy with his smooth, polished accent to think the dirtiest thoughts possible.”

“Ever been to Rugby?” Arthur said, memories flushing his skin with a heat that didn't burn shame into his gullet, but that rather warmed his body into a keen knowledge of himself, his blood coursing in faster rhythms through his veins.

“Evidently not,” Merlin said with a little nasal snort, his accent purposefully thickening, “because I was about to be very matter of fact and say Pan was the god of fields and groves, which, as you see, isn't as enticing as your lascivious school-boy fantasies.”

“We did say the dirtiest things,” Arthur said, a recollection of a dark dormitory rising in his memories. He remembered with a dreamlike clarity the shadows playing at the foot of his bed, the cadence of his waking school fellows' breaths, as low as bellows fanning a fire, more deeply vivid amid the snuffles and snores that animated the other sleeping bodies closest to them. He recalled with staggering precision all the stories that were then told; they used to pool into his consciousness and lit his body on fire. “It was quite common.”

“I'm afraid I missed out on a lot by going to a Welsh grammar school,” Merlin told him, with a self conscious chuckle. “My education didn't entail any filth. I had to learn about satisfying my dirty thoughts in lonely fashion. Your experience seems to have been much more... communal.”

“Boys sharing quarters,” Arthur said, his body as hot as coals, even though he was in a cool, shadowed cave. “Fantasising was quite necessary.”

“I bet,” Merlin said, his voice sounding closer, like the pulse and taste of his breath in the dank cave. 

Arthur trembled in place from the root of his hair down to the tip of his toes. He sniffed loudly. Voice cracking like sudden thunder, he added quickly, intemperately, “Of course it wasn't just dirty tales. Public school was mostly a succession of silent, fearful seven o'clock breakfasts, long tramps to church or to class, mud under your shoes and wind licking at your collar. It was... I'm not sure you'd have enjoyed it.”

“I'm not sure you did either,” Merlin said, speculative, thoughtful.

“It was school,” Arthur shrugged, Merlin's understanding terrifying him to the quick, like the ghost of his school-day cravings, the bitter recollections that haunted him like phantoms in a dream. “It was only school.”

“Well, as a challenge to all those schoolboy tales of big deeds that never quite took place in the real world,” Merlin said, his tone now resistant to the shadows Arthur had hinted at, “why don't we go on a real quest, now in this cave, which by the way has forty chambers, so we'll have a real deed to talk about?”

Arthur said, “Yes, yes, by every means.”

“Let's then,” Merlin said, illuminating the narrow path ahead, the walls of rock that seemed to change shape as the light hit them, the little side chambers and granite pockets. “And let's come back with a glorious tale to tell.”

 

***** 

 

Even in the harbour, the sea was high with the sighs of a rising wind. The water was choppy, foamy. The sky was the colour of nude pearls, placid with a dusting of pink streaked through with tempera yellows. The lengthening rays of the midday sun embraced the ponderous shape of Kirra port, the curve of the Corinthian Gulf, the mass of vessels scattered across it, like paper wings assembled in a row. Light streamed through the clouds that spotted the horizon line, rays like spears of light. Everything lay under veils of it, almost washing nature in acrylics of its own creation. The air was hot, sweet-smelling, with a tang of salt from the sea and that peculiar odour that usually comes off docks. The stones at their feet shed heat, baked by the sun. It transferred to the body. Arthur's flesh burned with it, with the touch of the sweet redolent air on his skin, with the dampness that coated the air and stuck to his clothes in an embrace that seemed feverish, the last gesture of a lover.

The atmosphere seemed to affect other people too, to burn their senses; make them act quite drunkenly. The young couple walking hip to hip, their hands casually settled around their waists as they slyly petted each other in a pattern of caresses that was slow but deliberate, clearly seemed to have partaken of this lust ambrosia. 

“It's marvellous how the desire for sex can be so transparent on some, so easy, so clear cut,” Arthur said, his back to the bench, his side pressed to Merlin's.

“Yes,” Merlin said, looking to the young couple. “But it's natural, isn't it...” He pierced Arthur with his gaze, a plumbing of Arthur's soul that made the pressure behind his heart increase. “We all desire something, someone.” 

Arthur bobbed his head, made the gesture measured. “Not.. We're not all like that though. It's not. Not as easy for some.”

Merlin clacked his tongue, watched the nectarine sun reflect itself off the emerald waters of the port basin. He dabbed at his forehead with his forearm, the sea-damp air beading his skin. “Yes,” Merlin admitted thoughtfully. “I don't think reserve is a quality intrinsic to some specific people. It could be. But there's circumstances to take into account too. Some situations do require reserve irrespective of character.”

“Yes.”

“But at the end of the day,” Merlin said, glancing sideways at Arthur, “covertly or not most of us do play that game.”

“Hunting for nakedness.”

“Quite.”

Arthur closed his eyes, concentrating on his blood playing under his skin, pounding his veins, battering is heart in a punishing rhythm that washed over his eardrums in a tide, before rattling off, “I do find myself playing it.”

“Me too,” Merlin said, his gaze playing tag with Arthur's. “Without a doubt.”

A snatch of a song reached their ears falling on them like beads of poetry unfurling on the breeze. “I think it's time to go.”

“We have been sitting here long,” Merlin says. “It's actually supper time.”

The little cafés on the seafront were opening up for the evening. Lamps were being lit in anticipation of dusk. Arthur rose. Struggled for breath. He toyed with the moment, reluctant to relinquish it, especially today, with the weight of the words he'd said pressing on his skin. Now that he was cradling close Merlin's words. He watched strangers stroll by, giving each other summer kisses as they parted, a cool brush of lips on cheeks. “Indeed it is.” Arthur's mouth tasted of quicklime at the thought of wandering back home, to the desolation of his hotel room. He stuck his hand out nonetheless, grabbed Merlin's so that the imprint of his palm burned along Arthur's.

A soft, private smile arched Merlin's mouth. It was a smile Arthur was sure Merlin didn't scatter around much. “I'll walk you to the bus station.”

“Will you put me on the bus too?” Arthur asked, revelling in his new found accord with Merlin, his mouth twitching in a sideways moue. 

“I might,” Merlin said, dancing from foot to foot. “So I'm sure you make it back to Delphi.”

“I can see my self back to Delphi,” Arthur said, knowing how weak his protest sounded. “But I'll be... fine with you walking me.”

“Fine?”

“Happy.” Arthur breathed out, releasing his shoulders.

They took the road back to the bus station at a stroll, hands in pockets, but still veering close. The moment they got there, Arthur's bus got in, idling at the stop and coughing fumes.

“Goodbye then,” Arthur said, teetering forward for a handshake.

“Goodbye,” Merlin said, pressing the flat of his palm against the length of Arthur's rather than shaking his hand. “And see you soon.”

He walked away, the lambent shadows of evening embracing him in their depths.

 

***** 

 

The weather had turned. The sky had a grey cast to it. It was swollen with storm clouds that climbed upwards one on top of the other in thick dome-like strata. Silver painted the lower banks of the horizon while stringier nimbi brushed tree tops with dramatic sweeps of charcoal. The ground was dryer, compacted by the frost into a solid mass that made the brush look lifeless. The mountains reflected a white light from their peaks, like impending snow, their height a dark shadow that lay upon the slopes like the promise of the darker season ahead. Even the shoreline in the far distance shimmered like a pale leaden shield. The air was heavy until it crashed with thunder and it lightened. A moment later rain came down in thick sheets the prevented Arthur from seeing much further than what lay immediately outside his window.

There would be no outing today. The weather wouldn't entice anyone to go out, not unless they had to and Merlin didn't. The man had his own schedule. While he worked under a deadline, he was under no compulsion to data gather today of all days. So he'd stay indoors, probably working on his notes, cosily snuggled at home.

Arthur could go downstairs, seek out the company of the other travellers at the hotel, but although he had dressed and was presentable, he felt no inclination for such meetings.

Instead, he paced up and down, observing tiny details that had no business impressing themselves upon his attention, like the drained coffee cup on his night-stand that room service had had no time to do away with, or the note paper sitting on his escritoire, lines and lines of writing blotted out by his own hand, the deletions looking like nightmare-laden arabesques that would only have made sense to a raving mind. 

Hands on his hips, he walked to and fro, listening to the ticking of the alarm clock, with its tinny sound and annoying obtrusiveness, his ears keenly tuned to the pattering of the rain on the window panes. Moving restlessly to and fro, Arthur worked up a sweat.

He tipped his head back and noticed that the fan was no longer working. The windows rattled and shook with the force of the wind, the glass fogged up with condensation and smeared by the tracks left by water drops, but the air inside was close and sultry, a pocket of excessive warmth.

In response Arthur loosened his tie and took a breath that cleared his lungs. He shed his shoes too, leaving them on the carpet, one parallel to the other. Slowly he eased out of his jacket and left it lying along the side of the bed that wasn't occupied. Equally slowly, he opened his shirt, the buttons, smooth and hard like shells, popping one by one. With little more effort, he got naked, his trousers pooling at his feet, his socks going with them.

Nude, he sat on the bed and laid himself down. After having inhaled deeply, he wrapped a hand around his cock. At first he was soft in his palm, his skin smooth, delicate, fragile. As he gently drew his fingers up and down himself, he grew harder. Taking a breath that filled his lungs with pure oxygen that was like a stab to his lungs, he stroked himself at a calm pace. As he did, he watched the wall opposite, the indentations in it, the rough paintwork that was all wide, imprecise brush strokes. His mind wandered, going back to memories of when he'd first done this, believing it to be an utterly forbidden activity, at least in so far as it was connected to his wild, famished imaginings, his longing for a kind of touch that was, he believed, to be forever out of his reach. 

He remembered the glances that would trail down his body, at night in the dormitory at school, he remembered the stolen looks, from surprise visits after his fencing sessions, looks that darted across a courtyard, that followed him from a distance, the presence of the desired person known at skin level. He'd looked back too. The same thrill of power and fear moved him now as it had moved him then, dark and burning, searing him to his very marrow. He knew that if he just stopped thinking he would find pleasure. 

He let go of thought and closed his eyes, let himself fantasise about eyes that softened when they clapped on him, and about the laugh lines that would form around those same eyes, making them so different from any he'd been charmed by before, about the touch of a hand that melted the frozen lump he always carried in his chest, like a slab of marble planted on top of him.

His teeth locked. As he found enjoyment in the rhythmic motion of his hand, as he thumbed his length under the foreskin and gripped his balls tight, his muscles twitched.

He imagined warm lips touching his, kissing their way down his chest. He nearly felt the cushioned softness of them and imagined blue eyes smiling into his, with a touch of lightness and mirth that would erase all concerns away. Letting all other details stay blurred like the comfort of a secret, he pictured a lithe body, weighing him down, blanketing his, mounting his. Under this onslaught of these images, he stroked and teased himself. 

Come wetted the tip of his cock, made it slicker. Shivers running down his spine, Arthur fingered the slit and gathered his semen between his index and thumb. Involuntarily, he sobbed. He tried to bite the noises down, a mixture of alarm and shame sneaking upon him, but he couldn't quite, not in the way he wanted. Warmth water-falling in his insides, he let himself enjoy the sensation. His touch firmed. He grabbed his cock from the base up and pumped his hips into his hand, his head thrown back against the yield of the mattress, his cock throbbing against the tightening grip of his fingers. He let out a stuttering breath and let his imagination fly.

His companion was there with him, unnamed but not unknown, as had always been the case when he indulged in these private imaginings, but there was a different quality to this moment, a layer of pleasure that wasn't merely physical and that coloured the experience and made him glad. Because deep down, he could finally admit how much he wanted his phantom partner because he had an answer. He could own how much he craved and cherished, and there was a lightness to that freedom that was like undiluted joy.

The thought of that freedom made him very nearly feel his companion's hot breath against his mouth. His hips were being gripped by a phantom hand; his cock was being touched. Arthur pulled at himself as he thought about how those caresses would shape themselves. “Yes,” he gritted out. “Yes,” he shouted, momentarily careless.

Fucking his fist, he rocked back and forth, changing the the way touched himself so he could surprise himself and fool himself into thinking it wasn't his thumb that was spreading come along his length and that it was not his nails that were pulling his foreskin back and forward in a see-saw motion that revealed delicate parts that felt raw, in a way that had something of the too much about it. On a down pass, he brushed the head of his cock, pulling vigorously downwards. 

He fancied that lips locked around his. He had the shape of them by heart, soft and bow shaped at the top, able to stretch into vigorous smiles.

He lost it there and then, the tendons of his neck locking almost painfully, his body freezing into a last stuttering thrust, before the warmth that had been accumulating inside of him gushed out of him like lifeblood, leaving him boneless and tired, lightened of a burden.

 

*****

 

_Dear M,_

_I got your letter. I'm glad you're fine and that you found Guinevere to be so as well. She always was wise, perhaps much more so than I've ever been, and it seems right that her message to me should come in the form of advice._

_I met a quirky, peculiar man. He's full of zest. He's showing me the country. It's being quite a discovery._

_Yours,_

_Arthur_

_P.S. Lamorak is, I'm afraid, nothing less than an idiot. He's also making mountains out of molehills._

 

***** 

 

Sunlight shone like a tide of diamonds on the water and in patches across Merlin's wet skin, cutting precise swathes of brightness along his cheekbones. Hair stuck to his skull like a uniformly darkened pelt, his skin glowed and his fingertips wrinkled from wading so long. For a moment he stood perfectly still in an absolute concentration of inactivity, then his smile widened at the edges and in a big uproar of spray he flicked masses of water at Arthur.

Arthur sputtered and coughed, tasting the saltiness and warmth of the water on his tongue, tasting the rear end of summer on it. With his hands he wiped at eyes that stung and scooped up a whole handful, throwing it at Merlin, listening to his peals of laughter as he spat out what he'd inadvertently drunk. When he stopped, he went on the offensive again, launching powerful jets of spray at Arthur, thoroughly drenching him, then grabbed him by the sides and, with hands as cool as the current, dunked him under, following him in the cool depths right next.

Under water, Arthur didn't close his eyes but stared on at Merlin, at the way tussles of sun-rays illuminated him in shimmering patches, at the way his hair tangled in the undertow.

The moment diluted, became an endless pause. 

A brilliantly vivid consciousness of Merlin slugged into Arthur, crawled under his skin and punched at his heart. His body tightened with expectation, like a held breath. He thrummed with it, low and steady, in a cadence surely meant to escalate, to make of this one of those bright moments you remember forever.

With a splash of water Merlin broke the surface. He raced to the shore and stumbled when he came to it, landing on his knees but catching himself with one hand.

Arthur followed, rushing out of the water, the breeze coming from behind him and whipping at his bathing costume, sending shivers up his legs, the hairs that dusted them rising stiffly. With his hands on his hips, he stood above Merlin, feet splayed wide. 

Grinning, dimples bracketing his mouth, Merlin lay on his back, his limbs sprawled outwards, sand sticking to his skin in golden granules that seemed like paste that would never come off. Shielding his eyes, Merlin blinked against the glare of a sun that blinked behind Arthur, but took him in with a quirk of lips that was gentle-soft.

A drop kick of a sensation stopped Arthur's breath in his lungs. It made him feel fractured and fragile. It terrified him to the core with hints of memories best forgotten, of ghosts he'd thought he'd exorcised. This stab of fear lasted for a brief but momentous span like the opening and closing of wings, a heartbeat spun out on a harrowing succession of moments during which he didn't quite know who he was, what the real essence of him was. He wondered whether he was the man who never entertained the kind of forbidden thoughts that were playing out in his brain, or whether he was the man who dreaded them. Or was he rather a man who wanted to embrace those same fantasies with such a thirst that parched his whole body dry? 

But a few days ago, he'd found his answer in his hotel room, in the liberty he found in his own body.

This momentary panic lasted until he banished all thought, until he let himself be, in the here and now.

Adrenaline coursed through him like someone had opened a dam and whipped his blood into a frenzy, like some kind of new birth. His skin rose into goose-flesh and his heart gave out several hefty savage kicks that opened it up like a peeled orange dissected into smaller parts. 

Spurred on by that lash of power, Arthur sank to his knees and moved on top of Merlin, one arm braced close to his head, the other lower down, his palm sinking into the scalding mounds of sand Merlin had displaced with his weight. As he lowered himself, Merlin's body, up to then cool with the touch of the sea, borrowed heat from his. One of his legs curling upwards at Arthur's side, his knee grazing him, Merlin cupped Arthur's elbow and clamped a palm around his forearm. Scarcely blinking, they looked into each other's eyes.

A voice furiously whispered in Arthur's brain, one he often heard. It told him to stop doing what he was doing, that it was not right, but in the heat of the moment the voice was feeble and he couldn't quite heed it.

Emotion ripped through him devastatingly. Vibrant expectation played with his body. It made him wonder what would happen next, what the very near future held in store for him. Tension tightened his belly and his mouth slid open on a sigh he had no means to control.

Merlin said, “Come with me to Athens.”

 

****

[](http://s845.photobucket.com/user/pouletroti/media/Mithian_final.jpg.html)

_Dear Arthur,_

_Your letter arrived yesterday and I read it while savouring a cup of coffee in a Soho Bar called The Partisan. At The Partisan you can buy your beverages while you admire the art displayed on the walls. Apart from being merely ornamental, the art is also for sale. It makes for a delightful environment for art lovers, who gather here not only for the coffee but also to buy new pictures. As such it's always choke full of students discussing philosophy and theatre types being very dramatic. Our Banquo understudy suggested the place to me and, having some time to kill, I decided to scout the premises. As it turns out, I quite like the place and I'll be sure to return, but I'm positive the locale would disagree with you._

_But enough of that. I'm sure that being far from London you have little interest in my quest for fun venues._

_Are you having a good time in Greece? Sometimes I do wonder if you only say you are so I won't worry terribly and fly straight over. However, if you're not suppressing anything from your account, I'm very relieved. I'm surprised too. I wasn't expecting you to make friends so quickly. Not that I do think you an ogre by any means, but I never thought you formed friendships easily._

_Anyway, tell me more about this new acquaintance of yours? Is he Greek? Is he English? Why do you say he's quirky? What has this man done to earn himself that badge? As you can see, I'm very curious and determined to learn everything there is to know about your new chum._

_Do not worry though, I'll be sharing just as much as I'm asking you to._

_Let's start with what happened Sunday last. I had a party at my house. The hall carpeting was a vivid red just for the occasion, the banisters shone with wood polish and the door handles glimmered like polished mirrors._

_Guests gathered in knots in my drawing room. As the champagne circulated, I began to introduce people to each other until the buzz of chatter became constant. Salvers went round and everybody had a glass in hand. The quartet I had hired was playing soft jazz music in the background._

_I was talking to Galahad Ross, who plays Malcolm in the Ambassadors play, Andrew Morholt, the owner of Lyonesse publishing, and James Lamorak, who had introduced me to the latter, when the doors to the drawing room flew open and Gwaine came stumbling in, dressed in a grubby trench-coat and brown suit, his shirt open at the collar, at least three buttons undone._

_With some flair he grabbed a conical flute from a passing waiter, and, making his way over to my group, gulped the contents. “Hello, Mithian,” he said, placing his empty glass on the mantelpiece between a candelabrum and the photo of my grandmother, “it seems you forgot to invite me.”_

_I winced. “Gwaine, I did no such thing,” I said, trying to continue smiling, though I'm sure my lips took a downward turn. “I merely decided you were quite happy in Brighton and that this party would only bore you.”_

_“Because I'm not white bread enough?” Gwaine challenged, his suspicions quite groundless, naturally._

_Lamorak scoffed._

_I cupped my own glass very tight and, out of pinched lips, said, “Gwaine, you know very well that's not true.”_

_Gwaine danced up closer to me, tilting his head. “I think you're lying.”_

_“Gwaine,” I started, handing Galahad my glass, “please.”_

_“'Please'.” Gwaine snorted. “You'd say that.”_

_“What does that even mean?” I asked, my eyebrow ticking up._

_Gwaine started again, blathering nonsense about English society, class distinctions. He said, while slurring conspicuously, that he didn't understand why I played the society belle, why I insisted on playing by the rules when I didn't like them in the first place. According to him I wasn't a princess so he didn't get why I would be so stubborn as to try and act like one._

_When Gwaine's tirade had lost momentum, Lamorak said, “Are you quite done with your vulgar show, you uncouth man?”_

_“You called me what?” Gwaine growled in Lamorak's face, his fingers scrunching the lapel of James' evening jacket._

_“I called you vulgar,” Lamorak said, turning his nose up, a challenging light shining in his eyes. “I called you a coarse boor.”_

_Gwaine let go of Lamorak, smiled a lopsided smile, and nodded his head multiple times as if confirming some secret to himself. After having patted Lamorak's jacket so as to smooth out the wrinkles he had put there, he stepped back. Rather theatrically, he clacked his tongue and shrugged his shoulders. Then faster then thought he landed an uppercut under Lamorak's jaw. A loud crack sounded and Lamorak's neck snapped upwards. His eyes wide with either pain or shock, most probably a mixture of both, James fell backwards._

_After a few seconds of stunned silence – both on Lamorak's part as well as the audience's that had gathered around – you can bet my guests hadn't missed any part of this exchange –, Lamorak lunged forward._

_Gwaine feinted sideways, turning the movement into a surprisingly graceful twist, and James' fist didn't connect with his face._

_My guests' voices rose to a clamour. I couldn't tell whether it was from shock, indignation or a desire to witness the outcome of this confrontation._

_Before Lamorak could try attacking Gwaine again and before Gwaine could goad him on, I stalked to Gwaine, grabbed him by the arm, which I twisted behind his back with more satisfaction than I should have felt, and marched him out of the room. A deafening silence punctuated by occasional gasps accompanied us on the way over._

_Once we had cleared the drawing room, I pushed Gwaine on the first floor landing and down the stairs, the sound of my shoes muffled by the red runner. Now that we had no witnesses, I stabbed a finger against Gwaine's chest, shoving him down a step or two. “What the hell was that, Gwaine?”_

_“I gave Lamorak a taste of what he deserved,” said Gwaine his eyes alight with his usual unrepentant devilry._

_I cupped my cheek, my mouth tight. “And what is that, Gwaine?”_

_“More than a shiner,” said Gwaine shifting his weight from foot to foot. “That's for sure.”_

_I sighed. “He may be an idiot and pretentious to boot,” I said, though I should not have conceded, “but he was my guest and violence is reprehensible.”_

_Gwaine worked his hand, flexing. “I wouldn't have guessed you were one for non violence.”_

_I turned and climbed a few steps, my white, incensed face reflected in the gilded mirror. I looked like a ghost intent on haunting my own home._

_“Mithian,” Gwaine called out and this time there was a rawness to his voice, a sincerity, that cut me more than any anger or posturing would have._

_I stopped and bowed my head, my palm flat on my forehead, feeling for a fever that wasn't there. “Gwaine.” I didn't turn._

_“Lamorak is an egregious knob,” Gwaine said, in the tone of an appeal, but there was an undercurrent to his choice of words and it was clear to me that he was neither trying to make me laugh nor to underplay what he had just done._

_“I know his faults,” I said, clipped and terse, a headache blooming at my temples, “but I'm under the impression you only acted like a clown because you thought that would somehow impress me. And that's not impressive.”_

_Gwaine's voice cracked when he said my name again, but it steadied as he went on. “Think what you will of me, but you and I--”_

_I spun around and saw Gwaine gesticulating at us._

_“... Our relationship has nothing to do with what I think of James Lamorak.”_

_“No?” I tilted my head. Between Gwaine's tone and my incipient headache I could no longer tell if he was playing me or not. Gwaine is so used to charming people into forgiving him when they shouldn't that I couldn't be sure he wasn't using his guiles on me, however subconsciously or not. “Aside from your confrontation just now, and don't tell me you didn't have anything to do with that, because you did barge in drunk, I don't see why you would treat him quite so.”_

_“Well aside from him being a judgemental prick who lusts after you for all the wrong reasons,” Gwaine said, sharply, his hands going to his hips, “he gave Arthur hell at Rugby.”_

_“And how would you know?” I asked. At that point I'm sure I was asking not so much because I didn't believe you might have told him as much, Arthur, but because I knew that in his fervour he had just revealed something I had never known and he had never meant to share._

_“I was there,” Gwaine said, a muscle jumping in his face._

_“You were what?” I asked, my mouth falling open. “How is it possible... you...”_

_“Am not posh enough for Rugby?” Gwaine asked, holding his head up high._

_“You never mentioned it,” I said, sharply. “You said you got Arthur out of a scrape and that's how you met him. You didn't mention Rugby.”_

_“Yeah, no specifics, so what?” Gwaine said, scoffing. “I was there. I went to public school.”_

_“But...” I mumbled, my brain working at twice its normal speed and confusing me so. “Why wouldn't you tell me, why would you give off the impression you were...”_

_Gwaine placed his foot on a lower rung, thus putting more distance between us. “A poor jack of all trades with a foot in the underworld of low lives and scoundrels?” Gwaine asked, his mouth tight around the words._

_“Yes,” I said, because that was undeniably the way Gwaine had always tried to come across, even when he joked with you. “Yes.”_

_Gwaine answered that with a shrug. “If I were you, Mith, I wouldn't hang out with a person who has no respect for Arthur.”_

_I knew he'd successfully changed the subject but he had brought up a new one I couldn't ignore. “But I wrote to Arthur about him and he said not a word except in the most general terms,” I said remembering your message and the style you had couched it in. “He'd have said something more than 'he's an idiot' if there was bad blood between him and Lamorak.”_

_Gwaine scrubbed a hand across his face. “You know Arthur. He's stoic as they come. He never complains about that kind of stuff. Not to those he wishes to protect.”_

_“You mean to say...”_

_Gwaine's lips knit together. “Oh no,” he said, holding his hands up in a 'don't shoot me' motion. “I'm not talking. Let Arthur open up if he wants to.” He slanted his mouth sideways. “I may have my faults, Mith, but I won't be a grass.”_

_He turned with swift nonchalance and before I could blink he had cleared the stairs and made the hall, the glazed surface of the tiles shining like snow, burnished with the purity of continuous scrubbing, the glow from the light-brackets softening the effect._

_A hand on the banister for balance, I hopped down the steps, not sure what I was trying to accomplish or what I wanted at all. “Gwaine, wait!”_

_Short of the door, Gwaine hung his head. “For what it matters I apologise, Mithian,” he said. Then with the door open and the night breeze flowing in, he added, “Write to Arthur, will you?”_

_Then he was gone, a speck in the night, his coat looking dun in the absence of light. I stood there for the longest time shivering without closing the door, until Andy Morholt came down and rubbed my shoulders warm. “Are you all right, Miss Nemeth?”_

_“Yes,” I said hollowly, “quite all right.”_

_But even then I knew that I wasn't and that I wouldn't feel at rest till I had asked you what Gwaine was talking about, until I understood what had happened between you and James. If he's hurt you in any way, shape or form, even in your heart – for I know that the wounds we nurse there are worse than apparent ones – then I'll never entertain him again._

_But I need to know, so as to be able to judge, and comfort you if necessary. (Though I don't think you'd relish that comfort or my offer of it, you proud man.)_

_I won't hide either that what Gwaine said about your common past has shaken me. It's evident that there is much that I'm not aware of and would like to have an insight of. Since the night of the party I've been feeling like I don't know either of you and I don't understand why this part of your past – his, most especially – was hidden from me. I would ask you to tell me about it, if in good conscience you think you can. You know how Gwaine is, deplorably stubborn, and I'm sure that he'd probably make a big production of his secrecy for no reason other than to rile me, so asking him about himself is out of the question. Am I being lied to here?_

_So, Arthur, if you feel in a need to share, I promise to lend an attentive ear and be as supportive as I can. I never claimed to be a good person, but I'm sure I can be a decent friend, if only to you._

_Forgive me for pestering you with these questions and forget them if you do think them invasive. But try and understand my mood. I feel so adrift I don't know myself anymore. Then again perhaps these are only the idle whimsical musings of an actress used to larger than life feelings. Maybe these questions will soon stop confusing me quite soon. I wish it were so._

_I hope your holiday continues to be delightful and that you've found the solace and peace of mind you sought when you left for Greece._

_Much love and ever yours,_

_Mithian_

 

*****

 

Wind-driven rain pattered against the window in fits and splashes that sounded like small pellets being lobbed at the glass. Its surface was blurred by the foggy condensation that covered all the dirty and dusty patches, the grimy streaks. The unfamiliar landscape rolled past in a blur and Arthur caught glimpses of scenes alternating between sparser countryside and fertile valleys. It was all new to Arthur, a new landscape he felt was not just material, but one of the soul as well. 

Everything could be new, was new, both inside and out.

The lights flickering briefly overhead, they came into a tunnel. Arthur leant his head against the window, and for a moment he saw himself reflected in it, his face morphed since the last time he'd seen it. 

It had become rounder. While his jaw was as sharp as before, his cheeks were less tight, his brow had smoothed, and his skin had been touched by the sun, reddened in parts, like the bridge of his nose and the span of his forehead, and golden in others. His hair had lightened to paleness, with wan sublunary streaks mixed in with his darker wheat blond. His eyes had crinkled into life too, a different, untested light in them, one that didn't repel him, but rather made him almost want to look.

While Arthur was lost in this strange contemplation of himself, Merlin caught his eyes and smiled a secret smile. Arthur couldn't tell whether he had guessed what Arthur was thinking or not, but he had a feeling Merlin could read him better than he had previously supposed.

The train rolled into a station, a group of passengers waiting to board. Some of the ones already in his carriage stood to walk to the exit. The conductor standing by the steps, called instructions in Greek.

Arthur picked up his pen and slowly traced the words that came to his mind.

_Dear Mithian,_

_I read your last letter more than once in an attempt to sort out what I should say when I answered it. I weighed the pros and cons of re-opening that page of my past and decided that being secretive when consequences might affect you, however tangentially, wasn't acceptable._

Arthur shared a look with Merlin. Merlin's lips curved bashfully upward. He nodded and then opened the book he was reading, a battered copy of Evgenij Ivanovič Zamjatin's _We._

Knowing that Merlin was lost in his own world, Arthur continued writing his letter to Mithian.

_Explaining about Lamorak will probably clear matters up as to Gwaine as well, but while I can share my memories of my time at Rugby, I can't promise any explanation for Gwaine's current behaviour or offer any reason as to his not sharing memories of that common past of ours with you. You'll have to ask him the same way you did me. Mithian, I know it's different, but I think it may be worth your while._

_Take this as the advice of a friend._

_As for my Rugby days, they're not easily summed up. Reminiscences of school and youth always appear either golden or tainted by feelings that, however biased and extremely personal, still tend to colour one's recollection._

_I'll try to depict as fair an image of the place and my experience there as I can. Rugby is a good school, naturally. My father only had my best interests at heart when he placed me there. It was a school that challenged laziness and that imprinted the ethics of conscientious work into its pupils. Punishment and penalties were an art form as well. You didn't bend rules at Rugby. You bent your head and obeyed, and all the while strove for the attainments you were supposed to accomplish._

_Most of all Rugby was, for me, a place where I made many acquaintances among the boys and masters, but only one close friend._

_Until Gareth Aston transferred, it was mostly the three of us, Gwaine, Lamorak and myself. By the time Fifth rolled around, we had not expected to add to our small group. As it happened in schools all over and boarding schools in particular, cliques had already been established and we gave little thought to forming new ties. I recollect that my only preoccupations right about then were the inter-school fencing tournament and getting out of school so I could start my real, adult life._

_Then Gareth Wentworth Aston enrolled._

 

*****

 

3 January 1938, Rugby, Warwickshire

 

The grass in the close was hoary with frost, standing stiff like grizzled spikes. A thin film of ice crusted the edge of the flagstones, isolating one from the other. In the brisk morning light the angles of the Georgian masonry appeared sharper, the lines clear cut and severe. Even the rounded bulk of the faux mediaeval chapel to the left had more of a square set to it that day.

The air felt keen in his throat, like blades, and his knuckles were getting stiff with frost. Arthur performed a balancing act with his books and pulled on the gloves he had stashed in his pocket.

He'd just finished slipping one on, the other in his mouth, when someone called out, “Arthur!”

Crows took off in a flutter of wings at the high blustering pitch of that shout.

Arthur turned and saw Gwaine, his jacket's collar knocked askew, his shirt untucked and a few buttons short. He was running towards him. “Wait for me,” he said, a contented smile on his face in spite of the dark circles under his eyes. “For Christ's sake, Pendragon, just hold your horses.”

“I'm late as it is,” Arthur told Gwaine, looking around the deserted courtyard, which was only populated by them because all the other students had already made it to their lessons. “I don't want detention again.”

Gwaine threw his head back and laughed. With his fingers he dabbed at tears he hadn't shed. “Oh, please, Pendragon, we all know you're the best fifth former. They won't punish you.”

“And yet they have, time and again,” Arthur reminded Gwaine. “My father wasn't happy.”

“Whenever is he happy?” Gwaine asked, walking with Arthur towards the humanities building. 

Though they couldn't run along the oak-panelled corridors inside as they had across the courtyard, Arthur and Gwaine kept a bold pace. They were almost out of breath, Gwaine looking greener around the gills than Arthur, when they made it into the classroom. 

Mr Thompson didn't even blink at their late arrival. He was too busy introducing the new pupil standing right next to him. “Mr Wentworth Aston, as some of you may know, comes from Winchester, and is an excellent student. In his former school Gareth was at the top of his history and geometry classes.”

While he was being so praised, Gareth stood with his back erect and his hands clasped behind his back. His hair was longer than it probably should have been and curled softly around the whorls of his ears, like a bird's plumage. School regulations being unforgiving, he would soon enough be asked to cut it. The skin of his chin and jaw was red with the blemishes of razor burn, little raised spots that looked like they would chafe at the bare touch of a hand.

As he and Gwaine slipped into their chairs one next to the other, Arthur couldn't help but grin at the thought that the newcomer had tried to shave for his first day at Rugby, that he'd probably attempted to do so while there was barely a whisker there to do away with. It reminded him of what his father had told him. Don't try to shave before your time, Arthur, you'll only make yourself look ridiculous. Gareth, however, didn't look so, Arthur reflected, but merely overly conscientious about his appearance.

“Please make an effort to be welcoming Mr Aston and to show him the ropes.”

The rest of the students murmured among themselves for a while before Mr Thompson held up his hand, urging them to quiet down, which they did, because no one wanted an irate Mr Thompson on their hands. The man was perhaps the most docile of their teachers, but he became vindictive the moment he thought he didn't have his class in hand. Arthur, via Gwaine, had had first hand experience of that.

Fastidiously adjusting his collar, Gareth Aston slipped behind his desk.

Mr Thompson saw that as his cue to reprise his lesson. He sat back behind his large desk, on whose surface at least four leather tomes were perched, one on top of the other, the outermost of which was piled so close to the edge of the underlying volume, it was in danger of falling off. In a lilting, long suffering tone, he said, “Last term, I asked you to do some preliminary reading about the War of the Two Roses. Though the Christmas holidays have come between you and this task, I hope that some of you have listened and done as I bid you.”

Gwaine scratched at his face and squinted at Mr Thompson, as though he had no recollection of this assignment whatsoever, which was probably the case. Because of the face he made, he attracted Mr Thompson's attention. “Lord Chelmsworth, what can you tell me about the bloody conflict in question?”

“That it was a bore?” Gwaine asked, both shoulders having climbed to his ears.

Mr Thompson's face got red and the vein in his temple pulsed visibly, purple and swollen. “I don't have to say it, do I?”

“Detention?” Gwaine guessed.

“Detention,” Mr Thompson said in a sing-song of confirmation. “And before the new term is out I'd like to speak with your father.”

“He's on the French Riviera,” Gwaine said, making faces that made all the class laugh, apart from Arthur. Arthur grimaced instead. His heart only clenched for Gwaine, partly because he understood what it meant to have an absent father, though his was more taken up with parliament than with holidaying and horses, and partly because he knew that Gwaine was only putting on a front and that he did care about the example his father was giving. He was pretty vocal against the privileges of the aristocracy when he found a willing audience for his rants. At Rugby, frequented as it was by the sons of the elite, that didn't happen often. By virtue of having read some of the books his father had banned from the library at the estate, only Arthur sympathised. 

Mr Thompson, however, didn't. “Lord Chelmsworth.”

“I'll go to the headmaster's to tell him about my detention,” Gwaine said, knowing the routine by heart.

Once Gwaine had left the classroom he had disrupted, Mr Thompson reprised his lesson. “So has anybody got anything to say on the subject, an insight on the reign of Edward IV perhaps?”

Knowing that he would be questioned next as the only one likely to have done any in-depth reading over Christmas, Arthur was preparing an answer, when Gareth Aston's hand shot up. “I can answer, sir.”

“Coming from another school as you do, Mr Aston, you can't have known about this assignment, I'll have to assume that this topic was part of your curriculum at Winchester?”

“No, sir,” Aston said. “I did some reading on my own.”

Mr Thompson's eyes widened. “Well, then let me not refrain you from sharing this knowledge with the rest of the class.”

The new boy expanded for twenty long minutes on the subject, displaying a knowledge even Arthur, who had completed the assignment, marvelled at. The other students, at first relieved to have been spared the question, started making faces and jeering Aston when they realised he really was passionate about the subject he was discussing. 

In their eyes, Aston became doomed the moment his scholarly earnestness became known. Among a crowd of people skilled in only doing just enough, it made an outsider of him, right off the bat.

 

And for that very reason Arthur decided he'd like him. 

 

***** 

 

“Is everything all right?” Merlin asked him, putting his book down.

Arthur bit the end on his pen, smiled around it. “Yes.”

“Are you sure you don't want me to get something from the restaurant car?” Merlin asked, sliding to edge of his seat in preparation for rising. “Some biscuits perhaps?”

Arthur touched his foot to Merlin's. “Stay,” he said. “I'm fine.”

Merlin gave him a thin little smile. “If you're sure.”

“I'm sure,” Arthur said, his lips twitching so they coaxed the broadening of Merlin's smile. 

“Good.” Merlin bent his head and went back to reading, but the pressure of his foot didn't slacken.

 

***** 

 

_Shortly after his arrival, Gareth became part of the group that consisted of Gwaine, James Lamorak, Freddie Balan and me, the fencing boys. Gwaine was always ready to count more people among his friends, as open then as he was now, so his acceptance of Gareth was as immediate as it was total. Dear Mithian, you know Gwaine; he hasn't changed since. As a boy he was just the same person he is today. The other members of the group were a little more reluctant to accept Aston. Not so much because of his background, for Gareth came from one of the best families in the country, but because he was that peculiar species of studious boy the masters seemed to like and that put everybody's efforts to shame._

_Gareth was shy, retiring, and kept himself to himself, at least where most people were concerned. He had this aura too, this aura of complete honesty, that left you reeling at its genuineness. Once you knew Gareth you became sure he believed in honest principles and duty and morality. He also had a beauty about him. I'm not sure the other boys were jealous of it. There were no girls Gareth could steal from them. But, despite of the absence of danger on that front, they didn't like him for it._

_As for me, I looked. I--_

Not sure he had the words, Arthur stopped writing and looked up, his eyes finding Merlin's form. This time Merlin wasn't aware he had attracted his gaze. He was chewing his lip so hard he was in danger of breaking the skin, causing the blood to chafe it red. He had his foot on the upholstery of his seat and was using his knee to balance his book upon. One of his hands, the fingers long and slender, somewhat bony at the knuckle in a way that Arthur would now recognise among thousands, was in his hair, pulling at it every time he read something that moved him to a reaction.

Probably because of the subject of Arthur's letter to Mithian, Arthur found himself comparing Merlin to Gareth Aston. In terms of looks they probably did have something in common, a body type, the casual aura they surrounded themselves with, the vibrancy that shone in their eyes.

Otherwise there was something about Merlin that set him apart from all others. While his mind was as keen as Gareth's had been, Merlin had wit too. Merlin didn't just fulfil expectations, he challenged them, defied them. 

As Arthur moved, his seat creaked.

From behind the shield of his book, Merlin gazed up. His face split in two, though Arthur hadn't said anything to occasion that. He was blazing with something, maybe good humour, though Arthur couldn't tell for sure what it was. “What?” he said.

“Nothing,” Merlin told him, looking away, out the window. “Nothing. You.”

“I what?”

“You think too much,” Merlin said, his gaze pensive, though his face was still puckered in a secret smile. “That's all.”

Arthur pushed his foot against Merlin's. “Says the man who reads all the time.”

Merlin snuffled, wiped his mouth, resettled. “Reading provokes thought.”

“You proved my point.”

Merlin leant his head against the glass, his head tilted so he could look at Arthur. And look was all he did, his eyes fastening on Arthur, softening, getting bright. He didn't say anything.

This silence tugged at Arthur's insides, made his skin tighten and put a noose around his lungs. He wanted to lean forward, but didn't. “So what sort of book are you reading?” he asked instead, swallowing around the lump in his throat.

“Oh, this... this is a novel about life in a totalitarian state,” Merlin says, turning the book in his hands, “with the government controlling everything about people, their ethics, their labour, their feelings, and even the expression of their sexuality. They have...” Merlin dropped his gaze, looked up again. “They have one hour to lower the curtains of their glass houses and that hour is used for...” Merlin sucked in his lower lip. “And everyone is issued these pink tickets to keep track of their encounters and they all have their partner sign the counterfoil.”

Arthur fidgeted in his seat, opened the top button of his shirt. “After the war, after Germany and Italy, that doesn't sound so far fetched.”

“It wasn't just the war though,” Merlin told him, lowering his eyelids, sliding his hand up and down the cover of his novel. “It's... I think it's closer to home than that.”

Arthur nodded, shifting once again in his seat.

“You may be right.”

“I didn't mean to go all thoughtful about this. I just want to find out whether the story ends with a revolution,” Merlin told him, his shoulders half poised into a shrug.

Wanting to burrow into Merlin's world, take him apart, understand the way his brain worked, who he was, he asked. “So would you go for a revolution yourself?”

“I would fight for freedom,” Merlin said, straightening in his seat, sitting up as if he'd just been called to arms. “But since we nominally have it, or at least the post war propaganda says so, I'll be content to carve a place for myself.”

A stab of pride burst through Arthur, pride at knowing Merlin, pride on Merlin's behalf. “I think that out of all the people I've known, you will,” Arthur said, convinced of this now with a certainty that came from having finally got a sense of the kind of person Merlin was.

“Wow, that's...” Merlin said, reddening about the collar. “You've got a lot of faith in me.”

“I think I do,” Arthur said, quickly but not in a garbled fashion.

“Out of all the people you know?” Merlin said pointedly, looking at the letter Arthur had been writing.

“Yes,” Arthur said again, this time watching the blush creep up Merlin's face, delighting in the notion of having put it there. “Though Mithian,” Arthur added soberly, “is facing a different challenge entirely.”

Merlin said, “A life changing one I gather?”

“In some ways,” Arthur said, thinking of Mithian and Gwaine and the misunderstandings between them.

“Well, then.” Merlin cocked his head at Arthur's letter. “Let me not keep you from writing.”

Arthur didn't want to. He'd rather pick Merlin's brain and get to know him in the way he wished to, deeply, intimately. But he could see that now was not the time. They were in public and a moving train wasn't the place for such conversations.

“Yes,” he said, picking up his pen again. “I think I will.”

He put pen to paper and wrote.

_Overall, I found Gareth's presence pleasing, though I didn't seek it out. I think I had a notion I shouldn't, one that wasn't very clear to me, not in its most complicated facets, and I acted on the basis of that notion._

 

***** 

 

15 March 1939, Rugby, Warwickshire

 

Sunlight cut across the desk, illuminating the book Arthur had placed at an angle so that it would be lit by the rays streaming in. Desultorily, Arthur took notes, his ink stained fingers wrapped around the stem of the stub of a pencil that needed a trim. The pen, which had started bleeding ink during second period, lay discarded in the desk groove.

The one o’clock bell sounded up the staircase and down the passages of the humanities building, and its peal reached Arthur in the common room. It was a minute behind its time, but despite that the sound gave birth to a variety of noises, the shuffling of feet and the rising of voices, shouting, scuffling, and laughing. 

Arthur was sure that by now the corridors had been flooded by boys seeking the refectory. As for himself, he would wait a while, take a few more notes and then join them, having missed the worst of the hullabaloo.

He'd bent over the book again when someone knocked on the door. Arthur looked up and saw Gareth Aston standing in the doorway.

“Gwaine said I'd find you here.”

Arthur flicked his pencil up and down like a see-saw. “Yes, he was right. I'm always here when I have a free period. I...” Arthur had been about to explain his revision habits to Aston when he realised it would sound odd if he did. “I just do.”

“Yes,” Gareth said, taking a step into the empty room, the shadow behind him lengthening into a slim entity. “Gwaine does have a sense of humour I still fail to understand, but I hadn't thought he would lie about this.”

“His is not a sense of humour. It's more like he's decided to take everything as lightly as possible. There's a difference right there, I suppose,” Arthur said. He crinkled his forehead. “Did you...” he rephrased in his own head. “Were you looking for something?”

Gareth rubbed his hands down his trousers. “Oh, yes, actually. I had a hard time making sense of Mr Thompson's lesson on the Tudors and I was wondering if you could help me with that. You always do so very well.”

Arthur's eyebrow went up. “You seemed to be doing very well in class too.”

“I try to give reasoned answers,” Gareth said, rubbing at his scalp, “but I'm still not sure about a few aspects.”

“I don't see how I can help you since you probably know more about that than I do.” Mr Thompson hadn't waxed lyrical about Gareth for nothing. “But I can share my notes.”

“Oh,” Gareth said, shuffling forwards. “I couldn't ask for better help.”

Gareth took a chair and moved it next to his, angling himself towards him once he'd settled down. His shirt smelled of moth balls and lavender, a scent that for some reason numbed Arthur's brain to all thought. “Right, so,” he said, searching his leather satchel for the right items, “my history notes.”

To better look at Arthur's scribblings, Gareth dragged his chair closer, his breath warm as it ghosted against the side of Arthur's neck. “So Wolsey's role in negotiating the 1514 Anglo-French treaty?”

Arthur flipped his notes. Where the hell had he written that down? He was still riffling his note book and skimming pages as quickly as possible, when Lamorak poked his head into the classroom and said, “Hey, Pendragon, aren't you coming down for lunch?”

Arthur sat ram-rod straight. “Uh, not today. I don't feel up for a nosh right now.”

Lamorak's eyes narrowed a notch. “Suit yourself, Pendragon, but don't miss practice today.”

“I won't,” Arthur said, as he had no intention of not turning up. That would suggest he was afraid of sparring with Lamorak and losing his place to him. “Not with the tournament coming up.”

“Good,” Lamorak said, slipping his hands in his pockets. “See you later then.”

“Later.” Arthur held his head high and refrained from swallowing.

Lamorak nodded his head and went.

Turning back to Gareth, Arthur whispered a paper thin, “So the treaty?”

 

*****

 

“And this is my flat,” Merlin said, as he ushered Arthur inside his Monastiraki studio.

The place wasn't as small as Arthur had expected it to be, or Merlin had led him to believe, featuring as it did two interconnected rooms that devolved into a balcony. A variety of mismatched chairs, sofas, and tables made it appear more cramped than it really was. The clutter of smaller objects didn't help make the place appear airier either. Framed photos, collectibles and mementos covered a variety of surfaces, from tea-tables, to corner tables to shelves. Stacks of books and newspapers sat in improbable places, piled on armchairs or still collected in boxes propped against the wall, casting shadows across the faded, bottle green wall-paper.

Only the desk placed along one length of the wall seemed to have been arranged according to notions of tidiness. A big, black manual typewriter that was a little scratched and dented at the sides sat at the centre of the desk. To its left were two folders, one green the other yellow. To its right stood a metal rotary file with a few cards sticking out at different angles, phone numbers scribbled in minuscule print along the dotted lines that ran along their breadth.

After they'd hung their jackets, Merlin picked up Arthur's case and trotted over to a folding door to his right. “This is the bedroom,” he said, his voice sounding further away now that they were separated by the room's length.

Arthur followed him inside it. This room was low-ceilinged and square, with a window to the side that allowed the afternoon's burnished light to pour in. It smelled of herbs but most especially like lavender, which must have been used to keep the linens fresh. The smell was like a punch to the gut, awakening sense memories that Arthur hadn't touched upon in years. A shallow pine wardrobe stood opposite the entrance, squat and antiquated, one of its doors partially open, revealing a mirror glued to one of its panels. This mirror reflected their bodies, the creases travelling had put to their suits, the cut of their clothes, the dun colour of them. All the fittings apart from the double bed, which sat inordinately large in the tiny space, were pressed against the walls. 

Merlin put Arthur's case on the bed, the mattress sinking under its weight. “You can... You can use my wardrobe and the bathroom's over there.”

Arthur studied his case, deposited on Merlin's bed, the coverlet stained by the dust that had attached itself to the bottom of it. He saw his own shape, as reproduced by the mirror, the bulk of him awkward and tentative in this space that belonged clearly and quintessentially to another man. Merlin's bedroom was a place of habit and domesticity, a hide hole that didn't belong to anyone but its owner, a private enclave Arthur wasn't sure he should have a right to.

As he thought about this, Arthur's brain was still trapped in a whirlwind of thought. 

One consideration followed another, one conflicting with the other, and in that swirl of emotion Arthur realised he didn't know what he wanted. He didn't know whether he wished he could have spent his life here or whether he wanted to flee because he wasn't supposed to belong.

“Thank you,” he said, examining the coverlet's stitch-work. “I-- I promise I won't invade your space too much.”

With slow steps, Merlin came close to him. His face was travel worn and sweat stained, shiny with perspiration in places, but he smiled a very gentle smile, one that wasn't weighted at all by how tired he must be feeling. “Oh Arthur,” he said, “I fear you could take absolutely everything over and I wouldn't mind.”

Arthur didn't say anything to that. He didn't feel like he could at all. There was a knot in his throat and he didn't think any sound other than a sibilant would come out of him at this time. Something shifted inside him, and he trembled in place, his hands slowly curling into fists he made so he could hold everything in.

Merlin stepped closer still. He wrapped a hand around his fist, slowly easing his fingers open. Arthur felt the warmth emanating from Merlin's chest, his breath, his touch. He sensed the undertow of possibility held within this moment.

His heart hammered in his chest, in his ears, under his skin. He almost couldn't breathe. 

And just when he thought he would come apart, Merlin tucked him close and nuzzled his face into Arthur's neck, one hand closing around his nape, his fingers burning his skin into sensation, his lips skimming across his cheek, and kissing the corner of Arthur's mouth with a softness Arthur had never known. 

Unable to hold it all in, he gasped. Merlin did the same, his lips open a span away from Arthur's. Arthur wanted to bridge the gap and feel Merlin's lips on him. He wanted to taste him, the essence of Merlin, his presence a mirage he thought he'd always hankered after. God, how he desired all that Merlin's touch would bring, with a force he thought would tear him apart. A storm brewed under the surface of his skin; it seemed capable of disassembling him at the seams. His legs were like roots, except they felt as though they were made of stone. He couldn't move. 

His lower lip skimming Arthur's top one, Merlin inched his head left.

Arthur's skin tightened like a trap around his body, a trap he wanted to break out of. He exhaled. His pulse quickened in his throat, on his tongue.

Looking into his eyes as if for confirmation he could continue, Merlin closed his mouth around the lip he'd skimmed. 

Heartache filled Arthur, a desire for the impossible, for the staggering beauty of this, a breathlessness he'd never known in such shape, a burning in his heart and chest and lungs and bones that nearly brought him to tears. In reaction to these internal forces that were nearly driving him mad, Arthur palmed Merlin's jaw, perhaps too tightly, with too much force. When he realised how unrestrained he'd been, the thought he ought to apologise darted with anxious insistence through his brain. He should be kinder to Merlin; Arthur wasn't rough with his... with the people he shared his intimacy with. But then Merlin made a noise, an appreciative one, much like an animal groan, and he slid his tongue into Arthur's mouth, creating a hungry tangle of moist warmth that shot Arthur's poise and nearly brought him to his knees. He wanted, he ached, but he still didn't know what to do with this ball of need that had grown in his belly. 

Body wrecked with fine shivers, his curled his fingers around Merlin's face.

His smile comforting, all encompassing, Merlin stepped back. “Hungry?” he asked, as though à propos nothing, a complete non sequitur. Even so Arthur could tell that Merlin had sensed his mood that he knew what was going on with Arthur, and that that was the reason for the verbal about face.

Arthur swallowed audibly. “Yes. A little.”

“Let me whip something up for you,” Merlin told him, massaging his arm in a soothing up and down motion. “Everything's looks better when the body's nourished.”

 

**** 

 

5 April 1938, Rugby, Warwickshire.

 

Nose buried in soft cotton, Arthur towelled his face and his hair dry. A large towel wrapped around his middle, he walked into the changing rooms. 

“I'll have to give it to you,” Lamorak said, tying his shoes, “well fought, Pendragon.”

“Thank you,” Arthur said, grabbing his clothes from his sports bag.

Gwaine slung his own bag across his shoulders, “Coach Martin will surely choose you for the tournament.”

Arthur cocked his head back. “You really think that?”

“Yeah,” said Gwaine, with an easy and proud smile. “You are the best.”

Combing through his hair, Lamorak said, “I beg to differ. I will represent the school.”

“We'll find out in a few weeks,” Arthur said diplomatically; even though he wanted to be chosen to represent Rugby, he didn't want to be too rude about it. Besides, his ambitions were for him and him alone.

“I suppose so,” said Lamorak, buttoning up his jacket. “See you in Cotton.”

Left alone by the others, Arthur dressed, his muscles sore with the exertion of exercise. When he was ready, he picked his sports bag up, stashed his fencing gear in it, heaved it over his shoulders, and exited the changing room. At a lope, he took the path that would lead back to Cotton, but since the day was warm, and the sun had come out to play for the first time this year, Arthur slowed down. 

He was halfway across the path, when he ran into Gareth. 

“I was hoping I'd catch you,” Gareth said.

Arthur rolled his shoulders, then straightened them. “Really?”

“Yes,” said Gareth, about facing to walk with him. “I meant to see you at practice but Mr Davies wanted to talk to me about presenting a short story for a competition, so I had to stay on after English.”

“Oh, that's great news,” Arthur said, not knowing what to say, and unable for the life of him to chance upon anything more apt than that vague statement. “Sounds great, at least.”

“Not as great as winning a championship,” Gareth said, nudging his shoulders upward.

Arthur tightened his grip on his sports bag. “It's not a national competition,” he said, face flaring with a blush at the thought he might have led Gareth to believe his involvement with the fencing team held more meaning than it really did. “Just an inter school thing.”

“Still sounds massive to me,” Gareth said. “I'm sure I'd never manage that.”

“You don't do sports?” Arthur said, not sure he'd seen Gareth involved in anything. “Any at all?”

“I do PE with Mr Latimer,” Gareth began.

Just as Gareth was starting to describe the intricacies of his schedule, Lamorak came darting down the path. “Have you seen my watch, Pendragon?” he shouted, without acknowledging Gareth at all, though it was clear he'd seen him, had even slowed and ran his eyes up and down him.

“No,” Arthur said. “You must have left it in the changing rooms.”

“I'll go and check.”

“Yeah, you better do so.”

Lamorak sprinted down the path towards the gym building. 

Silence fell between Gareth and Arthur and continued till they got to Cotton, where they parted ways because Gareth had to see another one of his tutors. They separated with a few words that Arthur thought meant very little and with an awkwardness Arthur couldn't quite explain since they got along. “See you soon,” Gareth said.

“Soon, yes.”

 

*****

 

As he moved the dinner dishes aside, Arthur knocked the green folder off the desk. When it landed several sheets scattered. Arthur went quickly to his knees to retrieve them. Merlin meanwhile disposed of his own plate and cutlery and joined Arthur on the floor.

“I'm sorry,” said Arthur raking up printed sheets while trying to collect them in the same order they had previously been in. “I didn't mean to ruin all your work.”

“You hardly did that,” Merlin told him, crawling forward to grab a few sheets that had fluttered further afield. “We just need to recompose the file.”

Arthur was paying attention to the pages numbers so as to be able to do just that, when he realised what it was he was reading. 

Anyone who wishes to know Ambrose would have probably asked him where he came from and what type of childhood he had. They would be likely to wonder about his parents and his friends, his background. To be quite honest, Ambrose wouldn't tell you all that and a detailed description of endless fields dotted with sheep wouldn't help you understand fuck all about who Ambrose is. Because Ambrose doesn't fit in. He is an outlier, an outsider.

“This is no travel guide,” Arthur said then, going over Merlin's words. “It's fiction.”

Twin spots of colour came to mark the sharp slant of Merlin's cheek-bones. “Yeah, it's just... I've been dabbling with a novel.”

Arthur took a look at the type-written document. It was carefully laid out and looked like a pre-print copy, without typos or imperfections. “This doesn't really look like you were dabbling. It's all so nicely edited.”

Merlin tacked the pages together, his head down. “I'm... I'm trying to get published but I haven't put much stock into it really happening.”

“It's still ready for submission,” Arthur pointed out, putting the pages he had reorganised back in the folder. 

“Yes,” Merlin said, slipping the rest of the pages in the same folder. “I can't give up my dream yet, can I?”

Though Arthur was aware of the line he was crossing, he asked, “Let me read it. Let me read some of it at least.”

Merlin cast his eyes down. “I don't.” He rubbed the side of his nose with his thumb. “I'm so afraid. That you won't... That you will find it quite empty and not all good and... I'm not sure I can bear that.”

Arthur didn't want to tell Merlin he'd like his book no matter what. He didn't want to patronise him like that. But he didn't want him to fear Arthur's judgement either. Or anyone's. That was not the way to live. “Let me... know you.”

Humming softly to himself, Merlin sucked his lower lip in, and rocked back on his heels. His facial muscles ticked. After a minute of silence cadenced by his breathing, he handed Arthur the folder.

A coffee cup at their sides, they settled on the floor, most of the lights turned off but for the guttering one of an old lamp that went on and off at occasional intervals. Arthur had the folder open on his knee, face down, his back to the front of the sofa. As he read, he placed the pages he'd already gone over face down on his left. Merlin was sitting close to him, his long, bony thigh pressed against Arthur's leg. He was silent, a tense drooping shape beside him.

As he flicked through the pages, Arthur reached for his hand and pressed Merlin's down for a moment before returning to his reading. 

Merlin's novel was about a youth growing up in rural Wales, surrounded by people who drifted at the periphery of his existence but never touched it. In spite of the presence of guardian figures, the boy never found what he was looking for. He moved across grittily beautiful scenarios in an abject loneliness that resonated with Arthur as something known. This loneliness was a constant until the character made the decision to move away from the land _'he had in his bones and had in his heart but that would not fulfil him.'_

That was when he stopped reading, both because it was getting late and eerily silent, and because he didn't think he could take finding out that the character had failed, hadn't found what he was looking for.

He put the folder down. 

“So,” Merlin asked him, breaking the silence between them, his body virtually thrumming in place. “What did you think? It's too emotional, isn't it? It's too much of a bleeding heart story, with too much focus on the point of view character?”

Arthur shook his head. “No, it's... I'm not very good with literature, but I feel there was a realism woven in the story... I was moved.”

Merlin's eyes flooded with emotion. “Really? That's... you thought that?”

Arthur caught Merlin's face in the palm of his hand, touched Merlin's mouth with the pad of a thumb, and their eyes locked with an intensity that promised to undo Arthur at the most basic of levels. But it didn't. He didn't come apart. And though his heart beat painfully fast in his chest, he wasn't afraid anymore. Or not in the same way as before, as always. This time he was afraid of what would happen if he didn't do anything at all, if he let this moment slip by. Because if he did, he was quite sure, he would shrivel and die, not today or tomorrow, but quite soon. And he'd have had nothing of what he really wanted. 

So, he moved his face closer to Merlin, increment by increment, and matched their mouths in a kiss that made Merlin breathe through his nostrils and that caused his shoulders to rise. Arthur chased that breath as his tongue slid across Merlin's top lip, leaving it shiny.

“Arthur,” Merlin said, his brow crinkling in confusion, “I thought... I thought you wanted to wait, I thought you...”

Arthur nosed Merlin's face. “No, I feel like I've been waiting my whole life.” 

“I--” Merlin closed his eyes, his lips moving softly though he was not saying anything, his breath ghosting in quickening puffs across Arthur's mouth. “I'm yours.”

Arthur's heart leapt with pleasure and expectation, one painful upward motion that jostled his chest. He stroked Merlin's cheek and let his senses be clouded by emotion. “I've never...” The thought of it flushed his cheeks crimson. “I've never.”

Merlin leant in and brushed their lips together. Arthur gave a hitched sob when Merlin's warm, soft lips slid over his. Then Merlin dipped his tongue in his mouth, nursed at Arthur's, suckling it slowly, giving Arthur all he had ever wanted, the sum total of his desires.

Arthur became quite breathless and opened more fully to him, letting Merlin suck his tongue, before he started doing it himself, taking from Merlin as Merlin had from him. When he dazed with feeling, he drew back. “With men, I don't-- show me how.”

Merlin hauled himself to his feet and reached a hand down to him to help him up. “I want to, with all that I have, Arthur.”

 

***** 

 

25 April 1938, Rugby, Warwickshire

 

They led him at a run across the gardens, the ground grassy and fresh under his feet, the night bright and serene, much like summer, except it wasn't yet, but for the barest taste of it in the mild wind. They stole across the cricket field and then past it to the old shed, the one that had been built during the war and boarded up after a student, according to rumour, at least, had started using it for illicit activities. 

After years of dereliction it had been discovered again. Despite its state of dilapidation, the out of place boards and the sagging roof, it had been put to use by the boys of Cotton. Otherwise it was a virtually featureless structure, standing seven feet high and about as wide as a barn. Inside, it was filled with several cabinets of old tools and cleaning utensils. It smelled like grease, and must, and the absence of fresh air, almost like a grave. Since it was boarded up, the interior was dark, too, but someone had stolen a torch or two, so there was sufficient light for them to see their way around.

Even so, Arthur blinked and squinted, trying to adjust his eyes to the change in lighting. Seven fifth-formers were sitting on the floor with their back to the cobwebbed wall, passing around a fat bottle of whisky, among them Lamorak, Balan, and Gwaine. A girl, likely sneaked in from the village, was sitting in the lap of an eighth boy, her hair and arms pale and soft in the darkness, her form butter soft and pliant, just like the noises that came out of her mouth as the kiss she was giving the boy deepened, became quite lewd.

“Want a drink, Pendragon?” Lamorak said, holding the bottle out to him. 

Arthur said a raucous, “Yes,” and drank a deep pull that burned his throat, before passing the bottle to the other lads who'd led him here.

Before the kick of the alcohol could settle, a few other boys came in. One was short and reedy and Arthur doubted he should be here at all he looked so young, the second was the captain of the football team, a fellow Arthur saw here and there, but didn't know by name, and the third was Gareth.

Over the past month he and Gareth had slipped into some kind of quasi friendship, one that wasn't easy, one that was a little belaboured on both their parts, but that Arthur found himself looking forward to with an itch that surprised him. He'd once tried to compare it to what he felt for Gwaine, but he'd found the comparison didn't stand, because he knew Gwaine well and with a familiarity that made everything just flow between them. Their friendship had seen them through thick and thin and was the reason why Arthur put up with Gwaine's wildness and Gwaine accepted Arthur's seriousness. 

There was none of that with Gareth and yet he made Arthur inordinately glad every time he turned up.

So now Arthur was both anticipating and dreading Gareth's presence, happy that he was there, and wary too. His friend shouldn't witness this, should he?

The bottle was passed around again and Arthur took a second slug, feeling his limbs tingle, watching his friends drink. Some of them were circumspect, others not quite so much and guzzled the contents till their lips were wet. Gareth went about it with caution, only taking a fuller swig once Arthur had.

The third pull Arthur took was burning, good. Heady. It made the room feel hot about him. Damp patches formed on his shirt at chest and lower back level. He felt stifled. He wished he could pull off the shirt he'd hurriedly put on before stealing out.

The girl got the last of the whisky, upending the bottle against her mouth until it was empty, then tossed it away with a clang. “Thank you,” she said, and with lips that must have tasted of liquor she started kissing each boy in turn. She would lean in with her whole body, her breasts brushing against flat chests, and her mouth would open the boys' mouths, with a gasp, with a sigh, with a hint of tongue.

Even though Arthur had never kissed anyone before, he knew in his bones how carnal this was. An unamed dark tension settled in the pit of his stomach and pulled at his organs from the inside, fisting them tight. His hands dampened. Sweat forming at his temples, at his wrists, he watched. He saw mouths pucker and curve, get fatter and redder. His focus went to body parts, to stretches of skin, to folds of it. Arthur didn't know where was up and where was down anymore. Couldn't quite make it out in this jungle of skin.

Arthur's turn came. Expectation had built up the moment in his imagination, but when the kiss happened his heartbeat didn't sky-rocket, his cock didn't tighten, and jagged pieces of thought darted through his brain that made the moment nearly pass before he'd fully understood it. He became aware of how moist and yielding her lips were on his, of how they quirked into a caress. But then they were gone and Arthur frowned, not exactly breathless but not feeling right in his skin either.

When she was done with him, she returned to the boy she'd been kissing first, taking his hand in hers, her nails dirty with grime from the shed.

The others protested, clamouring for more. 

Arthur turned on his heels and left the shed, leaving the door open behind him, his feet bare on the grass. Under them he felt the small stones dotting the ground, the coolness of the dew, the ticklishness of flower stems. He walked with his head down and his arms by his side, his shoulders up. The moon brightened a path before him while the breeze played against his damp shirt, cooling his neck, his bare forearms, and his calves. 

The voice coming from his left startled him, though Gareth's enunciation was easily carried by the wind. “Did you get embarrassed in there?” he asked, “because I did.” He wrung his hands. “I just wanted to run back to our dorms.”

“It wasn't embarrassment,” Arthur said, clipped, his tongue touching the roof of his mouth. 

They started walking again though they didn't take the path back to their dormitories. “Was it,” Gareth started again, “because you wanted to kiss her again very badly?”

They waded through the darkness, the shed still in sight.

Arthur told Gareth, “No, I didn't want to do that again.”

“But,” Gareth said with the obstinacy of someone worrying an aching tooth with their tongue, “you were thinking about kissing... kissing people.”

Arthur stopped, his heels digging into the soft terrain at his feet, causing it to yield in a mini landslide. “Yes.”

Gareth dove forwards and kissed him fully on the mouth, letting his tongue dart past Arthur's lips. A a hot flush sweeping through his whole body, Arthur opened up, responded, made the kiss as deep as the one in the shed hadn't been. This time, his blood ran faster, and his whole body surged. He pulled Gareth to him, his hands wandering down his spine, kissing till he had no more breath. Till Arthur had no more consciousness of himself.

A sense of who he was as distinct from his body, only emerged a little later. Then the kiss softened and slowed, became an open-mouthed nuzzle that lasted until Arthur felt someone's eyes on him. He looked up and in the darkness saw a form at the edge of the field, indistinct but definitely human.

Pushing Gareth back, he loped off in big strides until he was running and kicking up a storm of dry dirt. Cotton came into view.

 

***** 

 

Taking him by the hand, Merlin led him to his bedroom. It was dark in there now, the only light brightening the space the one coming in thin silver streams from the window. In the present conditions Arthur couldn't see Merlin very well, the feeble lighting casting him in shadows, ripples of a human form, slashes of it, fragments, but that didn't mean he couldn't feel his presence.

His movements measured, Merlin moved Arthur's suitcase from the bed, then turned around. “So,” he said.

Arthur stood there shaking. He could feel his heart beating fast and hard in his neck. “Turn on the light,” he said, hoarsely. “I want to...” 

“All right,” Merlin said, turning a lamp on. It shed a faint, golden glow on everything around them, but particularly Merlin himself.

Arthur shook and watched the way the light played around Merlin's angles, the stark geometry of his face, the long lines of him. He wanted to say Merlin was beautiful because he was hit by that notion quite hard, harder than at any time before, but he couldn't bring himself to do so. Still, he made it known that he was looking, his stare persistent, concentrated, likely wide-eyed.

With a small smile Merlin came forward, till he was very much in Arthur's space. He slipped a hand to the back of Arthur's head and kissed the the tip of Arthur's nose, then his upper lip, trapping it between his, then touched both lips, this kiss tender, with a ghost of tongue that slicked everything, melting Arthur's insides. 

“Let me touch you,” Arthur said, when they came apart for breath.

“Yes,” Merlin said, as though that was easy, simple. His fingers went to his collar; he undid his shirt without any fuss, though Arthur saw his biceps clench with tension the moment he dropped the garment. With a heave of his shoulders, he grabbed his under-shirt by the side and lifted it up to his underarms, until, with a wriggle, he was able to slide it over his head.

Palm out, Arthur traced Merlin's chest and shoulders, Merlin's muscles stiffening as Arthur touched him. Even so Merlin made not a sound. He looked down, his fringe falling forwards, and his chest took on a deeper colour, but he was quiet. As his fists formed, the tendons in his arms corded, stood out.

Learning a lesson that was learnt entirely by touch, and entirely new, Arthur stroked Merlin's rib cage, palming his front, his pectorals, feeling the hair around his nipples bristle, his nipples themselves hardening. 

As Arthur touched him, Merlin inhaled sharply, his nostrils flaring. Arthur brought his other hand to bear. A step closer, he moved his hands up and down Merlin's back in slow, broad swipes, following the lines of it, every indentation and clammy patch, tracing the notches in his spine with the balls of his fingers, rounding his palms around Merlin's shoulders, kneading, taking out the knots in them. 

Merlin was breathing through his open mouth now, quick and cadenced, shadows falling irregularly across his mouth, his rich upper lip, making his features a mystery to Arthur, as if there was a veil between them Arthur wanted to tear apart to get at Merlin. Still exploring, Arthur cradled Merlin's neck, both hands either side of it, and then reached up and touched his face. He made a study of it, cupping the warmth of Merlin's feverish face with his hands, grazing the sharpness of his bone structure with the flat of his thumbs. 

“I've never had this,” he said, his voice stopped in his throat with want and need, the emotions he was choking with. He couldn't just bite them down, stash them inside, some place where they couldn't be seen. They wetted his eyes and chased little tremors down his body. Emotion made knots of his lungs. His cock rose from between his legs, jutting away from his body and tenting his trousers in an indecently tell-tale manner. His face flamed.“I've never...”

“Stop thinking about that,” Merlin said, softly, slowly, voice strained. “Do what you want to do.”

“I want everything, for once, for me,” Arthur said, keeping his eyes down. “But I want you to want it back.”

“God, Arthur,” Merlin said, touching his lips in a soft kiss. “I do... you don't know how much I do.” 

Slowly, Merlin guided Arthur's hand to his lap, put it on his cock, and gasped, a click of his Adam's apple following on the heels of his words. Merlin was hard under the cotton cloth of his trousers, as much as Arthur, an unfamiliar ridge poking and pulling at the material of his trousers, creasing it.

Closing his eyes, exhaling, Arthur walked into Merlin's embrace, resting his lips flush against Merlin's cheek, breathing in and out. “You don't,” he said, before falling silent, unable to tell Merlin what was going on with him, why he was so choked up his throat hurt. It didn't make sense, not when he was about to have what he wanted, but he was broken up inside.

With thumb and index finger, Arthur unbuttoned Merlin's trousers and lowered his boxers, pulling out Merlin's cock. With a tremor, his fingers curled around it, the heat of Merlin seeping into his skin, the fluid at the tip wetting the heel of his hand. 

“Arthur,” Merlin whined, moving his hips imperceptibly into the touch.

He was beautiful like that, the length of him in Arthur's palm, wet, the warmth of his body radiating off him in waves, the breath coming out of his nostrils quick and hot. 

“What?”

“I-- oh my God,” Merlin said, “just touch me.”

Less hesitantly this time, Arthur wrapped his whole hand around Merlin and pulled, his mouth roving against Merlin's temple, impressing wild feverish kisses on it. He wanted to give as many as he could, for today and for tomorrow in case this didn't happen again or Arthur didn't have the courage to make it pan out once more. And for the past too.

Merlin moved his right hand along the side of Arthur's body, down to his hips, then back up over the fabric of his shirt. In little pushes he seemed not to be aware of, Merlin thrust helplessly into Arthur's hand, huffs of breath that were like bitten down sobs falling from his lips.

His head at an angle, Arthur caught those sobs with his mouth, kissing Merlin, their tongues darting in and out of each other's mouth's at the same time Arthur stroked his hand up and down Merlin's cock, in long motions administered with the flat of his palm, gathering fluid with a nail he inched under the fleshy hood of Merlin's foreskin. With a sharp little exhale, Merlin clenched his teeth, bit Arthur's lower lip, and grabbed his hand, the one that had been touching him, placing it palm down low on his belly. Through gritted teeth he said, “Stop, please stop.”

Arthur pulled away, putting some space between them. “Did I?” His throat worked. “Do something wrong?” 

Merlin chuckled, his eyes bright, all pupil and little focus “No, you were doing rather too well and I like you rather too much.” He shifted his weight from foot to foot. “Arthur, I was so close.” 

“Oh,” Arthur said, realising that Merlin was as far gone as him, that he really wanted Arthur with the same rudderless need Arthur did, that he might know what he was doing, but that that wasn't helping him make it last, not in the least. The thought moved Arthur like a punch to the chest. It moved him into bright affection, a flare of it that left him dizzy and reeling and wanting to smile, which he was probably doing, tentatively and perhaps shyly, but honestly nonetheless. Eyes wide, he stepped closer to Merlin, grabbed him by the hip. “Oh, right. I... Right.”

Merlin said, “Let's go to bed...”

Arthur nodded. “I'll have to...” He slipped his belt from its loops, coiled it around his hand, and then dropped it.

Naked, Merlin crossed to the bed, stretching on it, while Arthur stripped off the rest of his clothes. When he was done, his collarbones burnt with the knowledge Merlin was looking at him. 

He stood by the bed for a moment or two, taking Merlin in, breathing in and out, before laying himself down next to Merlin.

With a rustling of sheets, Merlin flipped on his side and put his hand on Arthur's stomach, moving it slowly up and down his torso. 

“I like that,” Arthur said, covering Merlin's hand with his. 

“I like doing that to you,” Merlin whispered, kissing his chin. “You are... god, you're...” 

Climbing on top of him, Merlin placed his body between Arthur's legs. Grazing his fingers along the ridges of Arthur's face and neck, he bent over for a long kiss. Arthur grabbed him, a palm flat on the edge of a bony shoulder blade, streaking upwards, so he could hold Merlin by the neck, and pull him close. With Merlin's taste deep in his mouth, his grip instinctively tightened. Arthur was quite drunk on this, all of it, the taste of Merlin on his tongue, the smell of him in his nostrils, the musk and sweat, the weight of him on top of him, warm, shifting. 

Chin tipped back for a deep kiss, Arthur couldn't see much of Merlin, but he gorged on touch. His hands roamed Merlin's body, studied it with a fascination for every single part of it, each length of bone and fold of skin, each little blemish, each divot or indentation. Merlin filled him with wonder, a wonder that was hazy and clouded over by the rush of blood to his head that was making him stupid and the constant ache between his legs that made him arch off the bed.

“Arthur?” Merlin said, his breath puffing over Arthur's mouth. “What do you want to do?”

“I just,” Arthur said, not knowing how to get his point across. “I just want to...”

“Do you want to come?” Merlin asked, punctuating his words with little nips that followed Arthur's jaw-line. “Do you want me to make you?”

“Yes,” Arthur said, trying to catch Merlin's lips with his. “Yes, I want that.”

Merlin caught Arthur's earlobe, sucking it into his mouth. “I can do that. I want you to feel good.”

Arthur's fingers dug into Merlin's hips. “Same.”

Sinuous as he flexed his back muscles, Merlin moved on top of him. They kept kissing, their tongues pushing and pulling at each other. “Do you...” Merlin asked, his voice broken by rhythmic pants, “want me to take you in my mouth?”

When Arthur closed his eyes, his imagination supplied him with a visual of that, his cock in Merlin's mouth, Merlin's lips red around it. He had to sneak a hand between them and pinch at the head of his cock so as not to come. “Not this time,” he said, his voice raspy. “No... I want you,” he said, trying to make Merlin understand. “I want you.” He sucked on Merlin's neck, his breathing getting laboured. His hands swept over Merlin's waist, ribs, back, and Merlin did the same to him. 

“You mean....”

Arthur couldn't speak up. Had never had to. The words lodged deep in his throat, well past the knot in it. So, instead of vocalising, Arthur nosed up under Merlin's ear, his lips frantically roving that patch of skin.

“Arthur, you've--” Merlin moaned, his fingers squeezing Arthur's shoulders. “You've got to tell me.” 

Arthur licked at Merlin's chin, at his lips, got a taste of his mouth. He let his legs fall open wide either side of Merlin and all the while he kissed him, he held Merlin's chin in his hand. 

For each push of his hips, Merlin responded with a shove back, body to body.

“You know...” Arthur croaked. “You know. You know what I want.”

“Arthur, perhaps--”

“I've waited long enough,” Arthur said, looking Merlin in the eyes, his hands spanning his waist, wanting to cradle Merlin forever.

Merlin sucked at his mouth, fingers loosening their grip on Arthur's hips so he could lean over and grab something from the night-stand to their left. “I'm going to do everything you want in the way you want,” Merlin told him, before sliding down his body.

When Merlin touched him between the legs, Arthur clenched one fist in the sheets and held his breath. When Merlin pushed inside, fingers cool, Arthur flinched but then loosened his muscles. He wanted Merlin to just see how much he needed this. And though he couldn't say it in so many words he could show him.

For a moment, experiencing this for what it was, Arthur thought his world would end here and now. His heart was cracking, and his body wasn't taking it, the edge of thrill saturating everything, drenching everything in its wake. His senses expanded. He flared his nostrils and moved his hips into the touch, chasing the physicality of it. He was too breathless to talk, too dazed to think, his breath loud in his ears, with a thrum at the end of each exhale that escaped his throat.

“Are you...” Merlin asked, his voice coming as if from far away, drowned by the rush of blood in Arthur's ears. “Are you enjoying this?”

“Yes,” said Arthur, cracked, low, pushing down into the touch, the touch that was softening his insides till Arthur thought they'd gush out of him in a tide that couldn't be stemmed.

“Let me try this,” Merlin said, scooting down the bed, pushing his body between Arthur's legs, putting his mouth to him. Arthur thought he'd liquefy then and there. He thought he'd come apart and dissolve. To stem that, he grabbed the headboard and curled his leg, digging his foot in the mattress, as if that could give him purchase against the water-falling feeling in his guts. But it couldn't. It wasn't enough. Not when Merlin pressed his tongue inside, wet and slick, and not when he started sucking. 

Arthur wanted to shout, touch his cock, come and let it be over. Then again he didn't want that. He wanted more of the fever Merlin's touch gave him, more of that burn that licked at his nerve endings and made him breathe so quick. Made him want to kick and shout and curse and bear down, down, down. He groaned, he curled his toes, and tightened his muscles and still Merlin was thrusting his tongue in and out of him, biting, wetting, licking. 

Hoarsely, Arthur shouted, “Please, enough, please.”

Merlin stopped, kissed his knee soothingly, rubbed his head against his thigh, climbed over him again and kissed his forehead, soft and sweet. Took his hand and linked their fingers. “We can stop now.”

Arthur buries his face in the pillow, chest crimson flushed, rising and falling. “I didn't... I didn't know that... that particular thing... could be so intense.” 

Merlin guided Arthur's hand to his neck, put it there at the pulse point. Under the pads of his fingers Arthur could feel Merlin's leaping heartbeat, insistent, wild, a roar of life. “It's the same for me.”

“I thought,” Arthur said, voice rusty and terribly unfamiliar. “That it wouldn't be, for you.”

“You don't know much of anything then,” Merlin mumbled.

Arthur craned his neck, looked Merlin in the eyes and saw a well of emotion in there that reassembled the geography of his own. In that moment Arthur wanted to give Merlin everything, himself, happiness, the moon and stars, the life he wanted. “Merlin,” he said.

Merlin understood.

He repositioned himself, his hips nudging Arthur's thighs wider apart. When he entered Arthur, his face a study in concentration, a tight assemblage of lines, he held his breath. The hair on his arms was standing up like fine silk threads, his arms trembling.

He inched forward, pushing Arthur up the bed. They both grunted, Arthur palming Merlin's shoulder, Merlin stilling. The pressure was intense; quite a lot, with an edge of pain to it, something new, shaping a different knowledge of himself. Of his partner too.

There was a note of wonder to his parsing of that, the shape of his desire for Arthur, but Arthur couldn't quite analyse the emotion that went with it, not past knowing, both rationally and at gut level, that he and Merlin had by choice found a staggering intimacy together. 

In a matter of seconds, slow like treacle, the burn dissolved. Arthur nibbled at Merlin's face, gave him a shove forward, arched up against him. Pleasure lapping at the edges of his consciousness, he nuzzled the frown off Merlin's brow, drank his intake of breath.

“Is this working for you?” Merlin's Adam's apple plunged in his throat. “Is this...”

“Don't talk,” Arthur said with some impatience. “Don't... don't second guess.”

Slowly, Merlin rocked forward, gingerly at first, then with less hesitance and more conviction. 

Rolling sparks of pleasure stunned the breath away from Arthur's lungs. It was hot and close, a bubble of breaths, sighs, the weight of a body, the yield of a second. What they were doing nearly broke something inside Arthur, something irreparable. He didn't know what it was but he knew he'd trade that part of him for the small noises Merlin was making, for the high flush that pinked his flesh, and for the blindly feverish shine that was now glimmering in his eyes. 

For each time he shook and trembled or bent his head so he could burrow it in Arthur's neck, Arthur's heart expanded. They started a tempo of their own, an ebb and flow rhythm, that was like a rippling tidal wave. Merlin's lips to Arthur's face an chest, roving in their murmurings, Arthur's hands skating across Merlin's back, the round swell of Merlin's arse, the back of his thighs, clammy with sweat. 

“Merlin,” Arthur said, “Merlin.” He knew he was teasing. He was repeating his name because he wanted Merlin to smile, to react, to lose control. He could do that a thousand times, like an incantation steeped in some kind of magical power.

Merlin did smile then, like a burst of sunshine between the clouds of his concentration. But the concession to Arthur lost him some of his tight control. His hand slipped; he pushed too hard, and shot his own rhythm, moving in quick snaps, short strokes that bore no resemblance to the long strokes from before. His back rolled, snapping up and up in these little shimmies Arthur felt from under his palm. With each of these bursts of motion Arthur's pleasure burnt deep, harsh, at the core of him.

It was then that Arthur made a desperate grab for his cock and took to pulling at it, long but quick, pushing it through his hand between thumb and index, his hand wet with the pre-come he was loosely shedding, like a boy, a boy finding his pleasure for the first time. It was good then, perfect. Merlin's strokes loosened his insides in a tide of soothing pleasure, while touching his cock gave him sharp stabs of a rawer thrill. He'd been on edge so long, he couldn't hold on. 

“Are you close?” Merlin asked him, tender even through the strain of keeping his strokes as even as he could.

“Yes,” said Arthur and his words were just a herald of what happened right next. He came in long ropey spurts. He sank against the pillow then, smiling most probably, feeling much lighter than before, until Merlin said, “Oh, Arthur.” 

Arthur looked up in time to see Merlin freeze above him, shivering and losing it, his face distorting so beautifully Arthur thought he'd never see anything like that again, and that he'd never feel quite like this again: filled with warmth for someone else. Even Merlin's moues were something he wanted to claim as his and never forget. 

Even as he went through the last spurts of his orgasm, which Arthur felt wet and hot inside him, Merlin thrust on, shaking his head, hair falling over his forehead in damp strands that were beaded with sweat at the ends. With a last jerky, uncoordinated slam of his hips, he folded on top of Arthur, a little moan torn from his throat.

“Easy,” Arthur told him, combing through the fringe he'd wanted to touch before, kissing his temple “You're fine, you're fine now.”

Merlin's breathing slowed but he didn't say anything, little tremors still coursing under his skin.

Merlin's silence helped Arthur talk. “I've got you,” he said, his arms tight around Merlin to the point he thought he must be hurting him. “You're all right.”

“Mmm,” Merlin said, his eyelashes fanning down against Arthur's pectoral. “Mmm.”

When Merlin slipped out of him, soft and vulnerable, Arthur tightened his legs around him, but Merlin made no more than a little breathy sound. 

Kissing his temple, Arthur said, “Thank you.”

 

*****

 

The pink-edged light streaming in from the windows illuminated the piste. It glinted off the blades of various swords and foils that hung from the racks. It shimmered over the crossed rapiers that adorned the niches carved out of the wainscoted walls. Dust motes danced on its wings and whirled around the polished metal.

“As you know,” coach Martin said, “today we decide which of you will go on to represent Rugby in the upcoming inter-school tournament.”

Gwaine kneaded Arthur's shoulders and said, “You know you can do it.”

Arthur nodded though the tension around his shoulders wouldn't lift.

“For that very purpose,” the coach continued, “we'll hold a bout. The fencer who has more points at the time I call a halt wins and the winner will represent the school. The bout itself will last five minutes.”

Arthur and Lamorak, as the only two contenders with the best scores, bobbed their heads in acceptance. 

“Good luck, mate,” Gwaine said, before sending him off to the centre of the salle with a pat between the shoulders.

Arthur and Lamorak went to the respective ends of the mat. While Arthur tested his foil's balance by flexing it left to right, Lamorak shifted his weight from foot to foot. Once Arthur was sure of his weapon and of its grip, he lowered his mask. 

Lamorak did the same. 

Arthur didn't know about his rival, but sweat was already coursing down the sides of his face and coating his palms. While he was aware he had Lamorak's measure as a fencer, he also knew he had been off his game lately, in part because of the Gareth situation, in part because he was still trying to understand what it meant to him. Above all right now he wished he wouldn't be so confused, so that he could concentrate on the bout. If that wasn't possible, he wished he could stop feeling, for as long as it lasted. 

He wanted nothing more than to win and represent his school, to the point his stomach ached a little with it. He wanted to write home and tell his father that he had won his place by dint of being the best fencer in the school. Perhaps if he did prove he was the best, his father would come and see him at the tournament. Which wouldn't happen at all if he didn't focus. He gritted his teeth.

Foils raised vertically before their faces, Lamorak and Arthur saluted each other, their team-mates falling silent in an effort at solidarity. 

Coach Martin stepped back and call out, "En-garde!" 

One hand on his hip, Arthur moved. With his back leg straight, he leant into the attack, his front leg bent, his knee over his ankle. He performed a double quick step forward, lunged with the foil, but was parried by Lamorak, who was very quick to react. 

It was all right, anyway; Arthur hadn't really thought he would score a hit with his very first lunge. 

He recovered quickly and scored on Lamorak twice in rapid succession, his blood running quick in his veins. When Lamorak attacked back, Arthur parried en prime, with his blade facing downward and to the inside. Then he went on the offensive again. Lamorak, however, saw Arthur's change in strategy coming and tightened his guard. 

“Two on my left, one on my right,” Coach Martins said.

"Good call, James," one of Lamorak's mates yelled from the side lines. "Change it up!"

“Go, Arthur, go,” Gwaine called out, hands cupped around his mouth. “You've got him.”

"Don't let Penda take control of the bout," said another one of Lamorak's supporters from the other end of the strip. "Or he'll win. He's a devil that way."

With a quick burst of speed, Arthur fleched, transferring his weight onto his front foot, his arm extended. When his back foot landed on the mat, Arthur tried to get a hit, continuing forward. Not sure he had scored, he sailed past Lamorak to avoid his riposte.

“Arrét,” the coach called out, taking his time to establish whether Arthur had touched Lamorak or not. 

Lamorak and Arthur both went back to the starting point. Though he couldn't look at his face behind the mask, Arthur was sure that Lamorak was glaring at him. He couldn't swear on it of course, but he fancied a malevolent aura was brimming off of him. Or perhaps the tension was putting Arthur off, and he was seeing things.

The coach finished deliberating, assigning the point to Arthur. 

Behind the mask, Arthur allowed himself a tight grin. He was that much closer to winning this. 

When the bout started again, Arthur incorporated feints into his game plan, hitting a clear and neat tempo. Lamorak deflected Arthur's foil’s thrust, but in doing so lost his balance and overextended himself. Instead of counter-attacking, he retreated to a distance, keeping moving so he would confuse Arthur. Conscious of the need to secure his advantage and not to get cocky, Arthur advanced yet again. Kicking out on his front foot, he shot towards Lamorak's middle, but Lamorak had enough intuition to duck and catch Arthur mid-fleche. He scored too.

Coach Martin called out the score, Lamorak gaining one point with his latest manoeuvre.

Time was running out.

Lamorak and he both returned to the strip. When they started again, Lamorak got more aggressive. Arthur, for his part, tried to draw him into making a mistake, into placing his foil across his body so he would free his side to attack. 

Heart beating in his throat, Arthur ducked away from Lamorak's response, the latter's blade glancing off air. Wanting to confuse Lamorak as to his true aims, he feinted to Lamorak's high line, succeeding in hitting him right on the shoulder.

Though it was muffled by the mask, Arthur heard Lamorak say, “That shit-head of a pansy got me.”

Ignoring the insult though it stung his cheeks hot, Arthur prepared himself to engage again. Lightning quick, fast with his footwork, Arthur exploded in an out of the blue fleche, his foil touching the protective quilting over Lamorak's heart, his blade curving in an arc as it did. Lamorak recovered his footing, but his control was shot. He had lost his cool too and his moves had become snappish, imprecise. His ripostes were all over the place, and while dangerous by virtue of their erratic pattern, they were also the opening Arthur had been looking for. 

Darting behind Lamorak, Arthur made a pass at him. A trickle of sweat slid down his hot cheek for the effort. 

With a loud, disdainful grunt, Lamorak edged forward, and swung his foil around like he was in a frenzy, his chin arrogantly cast upwards.

Metal clanged against metal with the tinny sound that was peculiar to foils. Arthur's blade deftly flicked around Lamorak's, repositioning the former with some powerful wrist flexing, the tip of Arthur's foil touching Lamorak's body. 

With a roar, Lamorak retreated, executing a series of deflective manoeuvres that were meant to confuse Arthur in the rapidity of their succession. 

But Arthur felt his confidence was waxing and that lent him speed and gave more power to his taxed muscles. On a twist, he moved his body sideways, moved past Lamorak and executed a behind the back prime that connected with Lamorak's chest.

“Score,” the coach called. “Pendragon wins.”

A grin slowly spreading from one of his ears to the other, Arthur doffed his mask, not caring one whit if he didn't look poised after his victory. He had made his mark and would represent his school and maybe this meant his father would acknowledge his efforts. With proof positive, he must. He should probably have shaken Lamorak's hand at that point, etiquette commanded it, but he felt the urge to celebrate with Gwaine first. Actually, he was in a mood to jump up and down and containing his glee was enough effort. Moving towards his friend, mask under his arm, he said, “Hey, Gwaine, guess where I'm going!”

He heard the lashing of a blade in the air, and its whistle, before he made out Gwaine's warning. In a fraction of a second he turned around and saw the glint of the blade as it thrust at him. He also picked out the vibration of Gwaine's sabre as it intercepted it, but not before warmth bloomed at Arthur's neck. Jaw hanging open, body taut with the taking over of the primal instinct of fear, Arthur 's insides lurched. His hand came away bloody. “What the hell,” he said, reeling, not so much because of the pain, but because he couldn't believe what he was seeing: Lamorak, his face wan, the curl of his lips deprecating, the side of his foil, the part that wasn't blunted, stained with Arthur's blood.

Before he could think and talk himself out of it, Arthur had launched himself at Lamorak. He'd only managed to grab him by the padding on his chest, when Gwaine gripped him by his middle. Coach Martin took a hold of him too, his palm around his neck. By pulling hard, Coach Martin separated Arthur and Lamorak.

“That,” the coach said, holding him and Lamorak apart, “was undignified, unconscionable and unsportsmanlike.”

“He started it,” Gwaine said, with a hiss directed at Lamorak. “He hit Arthur when they were off the strip!”

The coach looked at the blood trickling down Arthur's neck and then at Lamorak's ever tightening face. “Have you gone mad, Lamorak? You wounded your school fellow. You better have an explanation for that.”

“It's not right for him to win,” Lamorak spat out, eyes narrow, spittle flying. “It's not right!”

“Pendragon won fair and square,” Coach Martin said, holding a finger up in reprimand. “Are you questioning my judgement?”

“No.” Lamorak lowered his head. With a shrug of his shoulders, he added, “But I'm questioning Pendragon's fitness to represent our school.”

Thoughts running back to the night they all stole out to the shed, Arthur felt his marrow curl. It hadn't been an impression then. Someone had been watching and that someone had been James Lamorak. 

He didn't hear what the coach said next or how Lamorak answered him. He was focusing too hard on not reacting, his insides feeling as though they had been ripped out and replaced with frozen copies of them. What he did make out next was Lamorak saying, “Pendragon is not fit, that's all.”

“If you persist in saying that, you'll have to base your accusations on more solid proof,” the coach said. “As it stands, you're off my team for attacking a student.”

“But--” Lamorak started. “It's...”

“Not a word more,” said the coach, his jaw ticking. “Unless you want me to talk to the headmaster and suggest that you should be expelled.”

That got Lamorak to stand down, but not Arthur to relax. All day long Arthur thought of what Lamorak would do to redress what he perceived as a wrong. When nothing immediately happened, Arthur told himself he could relax, but his skin kept feeling too tight, as though his body knew the penny was about to drop.

He wasn't wrong. A week later, in the middle of his French lesson, he was summoned to the headmaster's office. In all of Arthur's school life that had never happened before, it was Gwaine's purview rather, so that was how he knew that Lamorak had indeed acted. Before he left the classroom, he exchanged glances with Gwaine, who grimaced, but nodded to him, head held up. Arthur strove to mirror Gwaine's body language but all the way to the headmaster's office, Arthur felt as though he had a huge boulder strapped to his back, on top of his spine, a spine that was about to crack.

Nails digging into his palm, he knocked on the headmaster's door.

 

****** 

 

When Arthur woke, sore, his muscles heavy with a pleasant weariness, Merlin was still asleep. He was lying on his back, with his arm bent around his middle, his fingers loose. His other hand was hidden under the round mound of a fluffed up pillow, his head slanted at an odd angle, an impossible inclination of flesh and bone Arthur thought was sure to cause pain in future. For a moment, Arthur was nearly moved to shake Merlin awake, but then he noticed the expression of gentle ease that sat on Merlin's face, the absence of markers of strain on it, the lethargic relaxation of his body, and stopped.

Instead, Arthur flipped onto his side and, elbow under him, his chin in his hand, he let himself look. He looked at Merlin naked on the top sheet that was paler than he was. At his nudity in its quiescent maleness, sharp and soft and bathed in a supple light that bent around him as if to cradle his keenest angles, and smooth out all the lines that creased his face when he was awake, at the height of his mobility.

With a smile on his face, Arthur reached out to Merlin, but dropped his hand before he could disturb him in his sleep. Without disrupting the early morning silence, the buzz of the outside world kept out by the semi-closed slats, he contemplated the confines of his new reality: this room, this bed, the wave of white sheets, which had lost the crispness of freshness as they embraced the turns of their sleep, of their carnal act. Their bodies had come together in sweat and sighs and motion. In a fever that had been like trying to burrow under skin, like vying for the pulse of the other, which was to be sought with tongue and lips and teeth, as if love could be weaned off another person.

Arthur's thumb found his neck scar, the slight hard ridge of it prominent deep under skin. He huffed, shrugged, stopped teasing it, then leant upwards and brushed his lips against the top of Merlin's head, in a touch that was so light it was almost phantom.

Since he was neither cold nor uneasy about his nakedness, he didn't dress. Not wanting to wake Merlin up, not yet, he picked up his underwear from the floor. He would have a bath and change later, once Merlin was up and about. For now he'd make do. As he moved into the other room, he caught a flash of his body in the wardrobe mirror, a quick reflection of the shape of his hip and flank, like an errant ray of light bouncing off a lens. He thrust his chest out, heartbeat accelerating.

He didn't dislike what he saw. His physicality, this perception he had of his life buzzing through him, made sense to him today. There was still a lot he could do and his body could be a tool to achieve all that. It wasn't a traitor, it was a part of him that could give him a lot in return. It could give him Merlin, it could give him purpose for a myriad other things. This body of his had life in it, thrummed with it, and life could potentially hold good things in store for him. If Merlin was one...

He shook his head. He was waxing too philosophical about it all.

Outside Merlin's bedroom, he pulled on his underwear. He went to the kitchen first, drank some milk from the fridge, and otherwise wandered Merlin's flat. He looked out the window and saw the the light play off the cross-in-square dome of a Byzantine church. He watched a man in a hat and grey suit set up shop, and took in a woman, who, basket in hand, made her way to the end of the street. She quickly disappeared in a clop of heels.

Hand on the balcony frame, forehead leant against it, Arthur caught the warmth that seeped from the panes by angling his face just so. His eyelashes coming down, he let himself imbibe the sunlight, his bones subsuming heat. He only left his position once he'd grown somnolent again. It was then that in an effort to keep active he retrieved the letter he had been writing the day before. Without moving Merlin's papers, he picked up a pen and set to finishing his letter to Mithian.

_I grew closer to Gareth. School creates a special set of circumstances and you're thrown together with people you didn't know with such immediacy you get to experience their companionship more fully than in other settings. Sometimes I wonder if that was all there was to it or whether it was bound to happen again and again until I could find my mould, the right configuration of self. My other friends didn't seem very pleased by this new-found bond and Lamorak in particular took it very much amiss. It started in ways I barely perceived and it became more and more noticeable. The sporting rivalry between us also had a part to play – I like to think so at least – but Lamorak became more and more belligerent towards me, to the point I had to conclude we had never truly been friends at all. The fencing scuffle that took place in May that year was perhaps the lowest point of our interactions. Suffice it to say we didn't call each other friend after that, the more so since our altercation had unforeseen ramifications..._

Sounds coming from the other room told Arthur that Merlin had woken up. Arthur put his pen down and padded into the bedroom. It was empty, the sheets moulded into the shape of a body, but no one was lying there. The door to the bathroom was open and the sound of water running hit his ear.

The bathroom was clean but the fixtures were old and some of them needed repair. One of the taps had a rusty base, a cabinet was missing a handle, and the under mirror shelf was crooked. A regular drip came from the old cistern hanging high up on the wall. Above the small red tiles, the walls and ceiling were painted a bottle green similar to that of the wall paper in the living room. The clash of colours should have given anyone nightmares, but not to Arthur, who thought there was something quintessentially Merlin about the nature of the place. 

Merlin himself was bending over the bath tub, pouring soap into it, his body stark and longitudinal. 

“Hello,” Arthur said, his cheeks hurting with a smile, “good morning.”

“Hi,” Merlin said, straightening in his nakedness, eyes bright with both sleepiness and a catlike contentedness. “I was going to have a bath.”

“I can see that,” Arthur said, clutching the door frame. “I--”

The skin about his shoulders reddening in patches that reached his neck, Merlin cut him off, as though he knew Arthur was about to comment on his nudity, the decadence of taking Merlin in like that. “I was thinking... perhaps you need a bath too.”

“I most definitely need a bath,” Arthur said, skewing his mouth sideways. “Unless you want privacy.” He looked down, squeezing at his nostrils. “I don't know. I don't know the politics of this.”

“There's no politics,” Merlin reassured him. “It's just you and me.”

The words bracing him, Arthur stripped off his underwear and climbed into the bath tub after Merlin, sitting behind him, his legs either side of his waist, Merlin's back to his chest, slippery in the warm water lapping around them each time they moved. 

Languor worked its way into Arthur's muscles so that at first he did nothing much. He only rubbed his hand up and down Merlin's arms, feeling his skin, combing his hairs, purposeless, direction-less.

When Merlin made a pleased noise, Arthur kissed his shoulder, the tip of his nose brushing along the length of it, right to the tip. At the same time he felt around the bone with his fingers, getting a sense of this very specific part of Merlin, reconstructing a map of him in his head, one that detailed his peculiarities, his physiognomy, an imprint of him. He liked this idea, this vision he had of imprinting Merlin on his senses. He enjoyed the prospect of doing so, again and again, each segment of Merlin's body his to study and memorise. 

“Arthur,” Merlin laughed a huffed, tremulous and coming from deep within his chest, a sound as breathtaking as a fist to Arthur's diaphragm. “We should probably wash a little.”

Arthur trapped the taut freckled skin overlaying Merlin's shoulder in his teeth, licked at the indentation left there, then let his lips curve around it. “You think?”

“Yeah, I think,” Merlin said, lowering himself in the bath and scuttling closer to him. “Yes.”

Arthur watched as Merlin closed his eyes and leant against him. In response, he kissed his head. With the square of hard yellowish soap he found the side of the tub, he lathered Merlin's body, working his way up his chest and arms, spreading some of the suds on the tip of Merlin's nose, a folly of feathery bubbles that kept bursting the longer they sat perched there. Merlin sneezed, chuckled, and tipped his head back. Arthur sucked the tip of his nose into his mouth. “It tastes sudsy.”

Out of narrowed eyes, Merlin said, “What were you expecting?”

“For you to taste sweet,” Arthur said, pressing and rubbing his lips together to erase the chemical taste of soap. “I suppose it was too much to ask for.”

“Wash my head,” Merlin said, butting his head against Arthur's clavicles.

“You sounded very lazy just there,” Arthur said, nevertheless setting out to rub Merlin's scalp. 

Arthur tipped warm water on Merlin's head, his fringe hanging like tassels over his forehead, and took to working up a lather. Eyes slitted, humming softly, Merlin purred as Arthur scrubbed around with the soap, digging his fingers into Merlin's scalp until his hair looked like a pelt crowned by suds. Then he rinsed it, moving his fingers through its damp silkiness, his chest grazing Merlin's shoulders. He performed this action again and again until the water ran clear. Both his and Merlin's skin flushed hot from the contact.

“That's good,” Merlin said, moving between the cradle of his legs. “I wish I could live in this bath tub.”

“It would get uncomfortable in the long run,” Arthur said, his voice edged with a rumbling chuckle. “And damp and cold... But given optimal circumstances, yes, I'd love to live like this.”

After Arthur had cleaned himself, they got out and dried each other up with thick towels that absorbed all excess water and became heavier with it. Even dry, Merlin's skin stayed pink from the vapour and warmth that drenched the room. Colour marked his cheeks. His skin was softer, smelling fresh, like the soap they'd used. The bath had definitely woken Merlin up completely too. His eyes were coming alive with a spark.

It was like a blow to the heart, all of it. Not knowing how to say that at all, not sure the enormity of that could be communicated at all, Arthur kissed Merlin's lips, not deeply but lingeringly, pressing his own against Merlin's to get a feel for the shape of them. Next, he skimmed his lips down the length of Merlin's chin, where a dusting of stubble darkened his face, and along his neck and shoulders. His heart beat spiking, he went to his knees.

“Arthur,” Merlin said on a gasp.

“There's not anything I want left undone,” Arthur said, his lungs smaller for the confession.

The pads of his fingers mapped the span of skin above Merlin's hips, muscle and bone a geography of their own, one Arthur dubbed himself the explorer of. The idea that he had all the time in the world to devote to this new science of his, all the right to be deliberate about it, choked him, made something inside him push up and up, soar. It was a powerful feeling.

With unusual abandon, Arthur inhaled the scents, felt the wetness that cooled Merlin's skin, registered it with a keenness that was dizzying. He nosed lower, grazing Merlin's prick with his nose and parted lips, skimming it with them, puckering them around the tip, the bulb of Merlin's glans pushing out when Arthur sharply sucked. Wanting the full tactile experience, he touched Merlin with his fingers, up and down, until, heartbeat buffeting him, he licked up Merlin's cock and down the sides. 

In response, Merlin hissed, sharp and rattled. 

With a smile, Arthur cradled Merlin with his palms, stroking softly, wetting him up with pre-come, a few beading drops, he gathered from the slit. He was aware he didn't know what he was doing, whether he was doing well or not, giving pleasure or just teasing. He couldn't bring himself to ask, but he said Merlin's name, trailed off, looked up at him. 

"You don't know how much you move me," Merlin said, and Arthur took it to mean he was doing all right, that his explorations hadn't been taken amiss, that rather they were being accepted in the spirit they were offered. For Arthur wanted to know Merlin to the marrow and give him joy and this seemed like the perfect short cut to achieve that. As for Merlin he whimpered and shivered, but he didn't pull at Arthur's hair or tell him to get on with it. He suffered Arthur's apprenticeship as if it wasn't his body that was being toyed with. This made Arthur all the more determined to give him everything and if that everything was to let him fuck his mouth, Arthur was fine with that.

"Arthur, what do you want to do?" Merlin asked, his voice like glass shards.

"You know what," Arthur said, not saying the words but making it clear there was no doubt as to what he wanted, needed, down to his bones. Borne on a tide of adrenaline, he kneaded Merlin's thighs, nuzzled Merlin's cock. This time, Merlin guided him forward, a hand in his hair.

Arthur's cheeks smarted with heat. He had a fair notion of how he must look, how sprung with need, and that did work up his nerves, but he wasn't ashamed of what he wanted to do or what he felt for Merlin. The two sensations were so connected, shame made no sense. 

He cradled Merlin's cock and balls in his palms, nosed them, touched Merlin with his lips and tongue, his mouth filling with water. Indistinct deep noises came from his chest, noises Merlin echoed, sounding distraught.

“Please, Arthur,” Merlin said, caressing his cheek with his knuckles, using such a reverence that Arthur's heart broke, so much so Arthur moved into the touch, wanting to feel the contact till his skin burnt for it, as he thought it would, it must, because a feeling like this had to leave an imprint that wasn't only of the soul.

“I love your mouth,” Merlin said, hoarse. 

If he could, have Arthur would have told Merlin that he loved his cock, the weight of it on his tongue, the way it stretched his mouth into muscle burn, the way he could sense Merlin fattening in his mouth, the direct result of how much he was enjoying this, what Arthur was doing to him. But he couldn't, not without stopping. He didn't want to do that.

To be more comfortable and work at a better angle, Arthur placed his hand on Merlin, not at his hips, but rather palming the back of his thighs, so he could pull him to him and touch and caress. Like this, he could take Merlin more fully into his mouth, well past his lips, until Arthur was a little bit choked with it.

“Yes,” Merlin husked. "That's how, Arthur. That's..." His fingers questing feverishly, Merlin massaged his skull, his nape, gently held him in place, with no strength behind it so that Arthur would have enough leeway to back away if he wanted.

But Arthur wanted no such thing. He wanted this moment to stretch and stretch, to infinity if at all possible. He wanted to stay conscious of his body and of Merlin and to continue to experience this. 

At first Arthur didn't do much, held Merlin on his tongue, fat and pulsing. But then he realised he had to move, react, or else come to a standstill. So Arthur went down on Merlin hard and fast, headily, feeling the wetness Merlin leaked, as if orgasm was only a pace away for him.

“Am I doing this right?" Arthur tasted his lips, which had a new flavour to them, before asking, "Is this how you do it?"

"You're perfect, you're bloody perfect, Arthur." Merlin's words gushed out of him like a litany, like a prayer Arthur felt he was the recipient of. The thought buoyed him, flattered him, made him feel drunk on pride and an odd sense of power.

Before taking Merlin in his mouth again, Arthur pulled on Merlin with his hand and played with his foreskin, tugging it back to bare the glans. He did what he liked done on himself, hoping it would bring Merlin to his knees as it did him. Arthur gave the exposed tip a hard, tight suck, one that yielded more of Merlin's taste, sharp, and tangy, jarring and perfect both. He gazed up to see how Merlin was faring. 

His eyelids had come down and a dusting of pink had appeared on his face. His mouth was parted and he looked pained, two lines splitting his forehead.

With a pang he didn't fully understand, but certainly a primal form of longing, Arthur watched him, until Merlin pleaded with him, invoked God and said 'please'. 

“Suck me harder,” he said, and Arthur, did as he asked. With his palm Arthur pumped him, the skin hot against his hand. And when Merlin started leaking, Arthur put his mouth back on him again.

Arthur was coming to love this. Merlin's smell and feel and everything about him, his body, his reactions, the soft shivers and bitten off sobs, his cock itself. Once more he covered the whole of it with his mouth, drew back, then bobbed down, feeding himself more of Merlin. 

His skin was delicate and velvety, the more so when Arthur used his spit to moisten this crown, where the skin was a little bit thicker. He rubbed his mouth against the folds of wrinkled tissue before tonguing the slit. As he did, more and more of Merlin's bitter sweetness was caught on his tongue, in beads and trickles that coated his mouth and seemed to never stop. He built a rhythm that was made up of dips and retreats, his tingling mouth working Merlin insistently. 

“Arthur, oh God,” Merlin said in a thready voice, inching his hips forward in increments Arthur knew were a last attempt at control over instinct.

Though he wanted to linger in the moment, he knew he couldn't keep Merlin like this for long, waiting on the cusp of orgasm.

“In a moment,” Arthur told Merlin in a hoarse voice. This was the last stretch, so Arthur gave it his all, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses into the skin of Merlin's prick, sucking more of them onto it, following a pattern that charted both the ridged vein and the skin around and under the head. Arthur helped himself with his hand and at the same time lapped at Merlin's length with thick strokes of his tongue, his spit wetting his own chin and fingers, coalescing with the fluid Merlin was seeping drop by drop.

Carding his fingers through Merlin's pubic hair, Arthur took him deeper and deeper. And it was wonderful, a pure mess in terms of what it had to look like from the outside, spit and drool and come, but Arthur was enjoying this for the earthiness of it. 

Merlin's breathing had become a thing of harshness by the time Arthur's lips brushed his own fingers and the tip of his cock nudged the very back of Arthur's throat.

Merlin didn't warn him, not with any words, but he made gritty and deep sounds and he went tense, his body fraught with it, and spilled come in thick ropes that nearly choked Arthur.

Before it could get overwhelming, Arthur pulled back, spat out some of it, and swallowed the rest. He looked up at Merlin as he took his own cock in hand and stroked himself to his own climax. 

When they were both spent, Arthur took Merlin again in his mouth soft and raw as he was, and suckled him until Merlin was hissing and curling in on himself. He didn't know why he did it since there was no way Merlin could come again so soon, but he did give it a go.

“Enough,” Merlin said, half laughing, half wincing. 

Before letting go, Arthur kissed the very tip of Merlin's prick, with a kiss that was all puffed up lips and nothing more. It was then that Merlin pulled him up and said, "You're just a natural, aren't you?" His eyes were soft then, brilliant, his face flushed, and he was holding Arthur's chin as though Arthur was vulnerable, eminently breakable. 

And Arthur said, "For the longest time I didn't know." Then he stopped himself and told the truth. "And fought it too."

"I'm sorry then," Merlin said in a tone of deep compassion.

“I thought I was pleasing people," said Arthur, wrapping a towel around himself. “And I still wasn't I guess.”

They both walked into the bedroom.

 

**** 

16 May, 1938, Rugby, Warwickshire

The door was massive and wooden, some of the panels were worn with age. It was well set in its frame and creaked heavily on its hinges when Arthur pushed it open. The headmaster was seated behind the desk, his hands joined together. Rays of light shining through the stained window painted his face red and blue and ochre. At opposite ends of the desk three other people were sitting. One of them was Arthur's father, his leg crossed over the other, his hand around his ankle. Across from him were Lamorak, his cheeks puffed out and his gaze cast down, and a man Arthur didn't know, although on the basis of a slight similarity of features he suspected him to be related to Lamorak.

“Please, sit down, Mr Pendragon,” the headmaster said, splaying his hand in the direction of a chair. 

Though his legs felt like stone, Arthur obeyed the command. “Sir.”

“I presume you have an inkling as to the reasons behind your summons.”

Arthur wasn't sure of what Lamorak might have complained of, but he could guess. “Our confrontation during fencing practice.”

The headmaster nodded. “Indeed,” he said. “Mr Lamorak insists on saying his punishment was excessive and he was in the right.”

“I don't think he was,” said Arthur, swallowing. “He attacked me for no reason.”

“I had a reason,” Lamorak joined in, sliding forward in his seat, his body angled half towards Arthur, half towards the headmaster. “Arthur's conduct was ignominious.”

Arthur started upright. “No, this isn't true. I-- this isn't true.”

Father extended a palm out to him, indicating Arthur should sit. 

The headmaster shifted in his chair, tapped his fingers on his knuckles, starting with his index, and said, “Mr Lamorak expressed reservations on your character.”

“I don't see how he could have any,” Arthur said, his words mumbled.

“Arthur, let the headmaster speak,” said Father, his jaw tight, not deigning Arthur with a glance.

“Mr Lamorak maintains that your behaviour showed signs of--” The headmaster leant back against his chair, unknotting his fingers. He slowly wiped at his glasses with a handkerchief, showing careful deliberation. Only when he'd perched his glasses back on his nose did he continue speaking. “Unconscionable antisocial behaviour.”

“That's preposterous,” Arthur said, forgetting for a moment who he was talking to. When he did remember, he chewed the inside of his cheek till he tasted the coppery tang of blood.

“Perhaps in an effort to avoid using much more loaded words I miscategorised your behaviour,” the headmaster said, severely. “I wished to spare your father, but perhaps the honesty of Mr Lamorak's accusation can only stand if I allow myself, despite my distaste for it, to say the words.”

Arthur's eyes burned; his lungs did too. He took in a deep breath and sloped his shoulders, waiting for the punch to the guts he knew was coming “I don't--” he didn't even know how to stem the headmaster's words. He only wished he wouldn't be there to hear them, that father wouldn't be. But he knew that wishes and reality were two separate things. 

The headmaster continued in that grave tone of his, “Mr Lamorak maintains he was witness to deviant behaviour on your part. He was appalled by the degeneracy of it and that was the reason, or so he upholds, that prompted his actions.”

“That is indeed why my son saw himself compelled to take it upon himself to challenge this behaviour.”

“That's absurd,” Father said, “Arthur would never act in such a way as to besmirch my name. I would like to know where and when these alleged facts took place.”

Lamorak bent his head, his neck flushing brightly. 

“He won't say!” Father said in a rising tone, stabbing two fingers against his palm. “That's enough to tell me he's lying.”

Arthur made no comment, didn't try and exploit Lamorak's momentary weakness. He was paralysed with dread. His body had gone leaden but for his heart, which kept thumping in his chest to a rhythm that seemed fit to shatter his ribcage. 

“My son isn't lying,” Mr Lamorak said, putting his hand on James' shoulder. “I taught him not to and he knows the value of sincerity.”

“Evidently this time he has forgotten,” said Father, eyes flashing as he stood up.

“You are insulting my son, Mr Pendragon,” said Mr Lamorak, narrowing his eyes at Father, his lips thinning exponentially. “And by association my whole family.”

“It's as though you're saying that by dint of his absurd allegations your son isn't doing the same.” Father fired back his volley in a clipped, terse tone, his lips curling upward.

Mr Lamorak tutted, his fingers digging into his son's shoulders like claws. “Spare us your rhetoric, Pendragon, it might work in parliament but not here among--”

The headmaster clapped a hand on his desk. The objects on it trembled, a pencil rolling sideways, until they all stilled. “Enough, we are among gentlemen and such a tone is highly uncivilised. I suggest we drop it.” After resettling his glasses on his nose, he added, “Why don't we solve the matter in the easiest way possible? Why don't we ask the young Mr Pendragon himself for the truth?”

Locked by a primal fear, Arthur's guts froze. A wave of darkness came over him, his vision dimming to pitch black for a few terrifying seconds. His sense of hearing distorted, magnifying insignificant little noises, while stretching deep the voices of those around him. He tottered. Or at least so he believed, as if his frame was vacillating over an abyss that knew no ups or downs. However he couldn't tell whether he'd objectively swayed or not. He was just certain he couldn't trust his legs to hold him, his heart to keep beating or his brain to form words. “I--” Arthur wetted his lips, sucking each one in turn, feeling the cracks along their length. “I--” He could have at least implicated Lamorak, saying he had witnessed what he had during an unauthorised nocturnal jaunt to the shed, but couldn't. If he did, he would have had to name all those present and he didn't want to betray them. They didn't deserve it. “I--”

In a pose specular to that of Mr Lamorak senior, Uther put a hand on Arthur's shoulder. “Arthur won't dignify that with an answer.”

Arthur bit on his tongue. He looked from the headmaster to Father. He bowed his head.

Later in the corridor, Father stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. They came to a halt before an alcove that arched over the bust of one of the old headmasters. Its marble features were so fine they looked like lace, and had the stillness of perfect repose. The stained glass windows behind it shone yellow light on the domed head of the statue. The windows themselves depicted warriors raising shields, standing on the head of foot troops raising lances, pages attending them. At the bottom were the soldiers engaged in battle, inscriptions and coats of arms lauding their deeds extending in a cartouche at their heels. 

“Father, I--” Arthur didn't know where to begin, how to explain to his father why he had acted the way he had. The genesis of his feelings made little sense to him too. They had sprung out of nowhere and they hadn't been what he would have expected them to be, what any man would have believed they should be. “I know you shouldn't have heard the news this way, but I--”

Father flattened his hands together, fingers straight, tipping them against his mouth. “Arthur, you don't need to explain yourself.”

Arthur sighed with his whole body, a smile cracking his face. “You truly think--”

“Of course I truly think that Lamorak lied,” Father said clapping him on the shoulder.

Arthur's heart constricted. “Father, in all honesty I--”

Father put his hand before Arthur's mouth. “I would never believe those allegations of my son. I want you to rest easy on that score, Arthur.”

“Father, I need to,” said Arthur, wanting to come clear.

Father grabbed him by both shoulders this time. “Arthur, I repeat, I will never believe that of my son. And that's my final word on this ridiculous business. It shan't be talked about again.”

Father's soles clapped with each step he took down the corridor, his figure becoming smaller the further from Arthur he got.

***** 

The sky was a deep blue and more transparent than spun glass. From the largest to the smallest all the stars were twinkling, shedding a translucent patina that went from east to west in a shimmering milky film. Constellations made up fiery diamond-bright patterns that criss-crossed the heavens in all directions. It seemed almost unreal.

“So what is your fondest dream?” Arthur asked, shifting the chair balanced on the tiny balcony so that his knees would stop knocking against the railing. As he spoke he studied the desultory traffic below, headlights fanning swathes of light in arcs that hit the walls of buildings as well as pedestrians that clopped down the road.

“Sometimes I imagine sleeping naked on rooftops,” Merlin said, taking a pull from his wine bottle before passing it to Arthur.

“Come off it,” Arthur said, elbowing Merlin before the hand-over was quite complete. Merlin nearly dropped the bottle, but Arthur caught it, though not before there was some spillage, ruby red trails staining the label now. “I meant honestly.”

“Mmm,” Merlin said, tipping his head back to gaze at the stars. He leant his head against the wall behind him, the hair on the crown of his head rising in tufts. He smiled softly. “Right here, right now?”

Arthur tasted the wine on his tongue, strong and aromatic, earthy, a farmer’s wine that had the flavour of frugal fare. Merlin had bought it at bargain price in one of the colourful Monastiraki markets they'd roamed that morning, Merlin leading, picking stuff up, touching the merchandise, nosing around, Arthur following, his eyes more for him than for the products on sale. Merlin's vibrancy had been a thing of beauty that day. For the first time in his life Arthur had become conscious of feeling a constant yearning for another person that did not vanish in self-contempt. “No, I was talking about the future.”

“Oh in that case,” Merlin said, his eyes slimming to slits surrounded by a tracery of the finest wrinkles. “I don't have a fondest wish.”

Arthur looked back to the house. “Not even your novel?”

“No, not even my novel,” Merlin said, tilting his chair on its back legs and letting his eyelids fall shut. “I mean--” He opened his eyes just a notch, like a somnolent cat. “I do have a meeting with a potential publisher in ten days, which is why I moved back to Athens, but that's not my fondest wish.”

Arthur nudged Merlin with the bottle but Merlin shook his head no. “Why, is that some kind of superstitious ritual, not calling it that so you won't be disappointed?”

“No,” Merlin said, turning just a little so he could look at Arthur. “I would love to be published, don't get me wrong, but that's beside the point.”

“Then I'm not entirely sure I understand.”

“Right now,” Merlin said, lifting an eyebrow, “I don't feel like I should make wishes.”

Arthur opened his mouth, closed it, shook his head. “Why?”

“Because right now, in this very moment, with those stars twinkling up overhead,” Merlin said, his mouth softly folding into a smile Arthur wanted to kiss, would have if they weren't outside, “I have everything that any sane man should wish for.”

Arthur's breath snatched. 

 

****

 

Later, when Merlin was sleeping and shadows playing on the wall of the living room in undulating ribbons of orange light, Arthur took up his pen, and wrote:

_My interactions with both Lamorak and Gareth Aston came to a very near close that summer. In more ways than one I considered Lamorak no longer a friend and as for Aston he transferred to his third school that year. Barring my more recent meeting with him earlier this January, I hadn't seen him since well before the war._

_The part Gwaine had in this was that of a staunch friend. There wasn't a moment he wasn't on my side or during which he didn't offer his support. This meant he became Lamorak's school nemesis, often starting fights with him and challenging him every opportunity he got. Though I reminded him time and again that it wasn't necessary, Gwaine never got the message, and though I disapproved of some of his methods, I couldn't say I wasn't a little touched by them._

_That's the kind of person Gwaine is and I hope you'll remember that. I don't condone what he did at your party but I hope you'll review his actions with this account in mind._

_As for my new acquaintance... His name is Merlin, he is a gifted writer, a man of talent, and a friend, I believe. He has a spark to him... He has a spark to him I can't gauge, can't properly define, and one I think I will never tire of exploring, getting a measure of._

_But enough of me. I hope this finds you well and not too upset. Should you need anything of me, please don't hesitate to write. (I'm including my new address on the envelope.) I know that my offer of assistance may sound hollow given the distance between us, but it is honest. Please, remember it._

_Yours, Arthur_


	3. Chapter 3

_Dear Arthur,_

_I was so glad to receive your last letter, you have no idea how much. And by the time I finished reading I was quite touched too. Your words do affect me powerfully, believe me, and thanks to them I'm not as shaken as you must have guessed I was when I wrote my last._

_I'm glad you're doing well out there in Greece, although I must complain. You told me so little of Merlin and yet from your brief description I'm sure he must be quite a brilliant character. He's surely someone I want to know more about!_

_Sometimes I wish you would be more expansive on subjects such as this, as much as letter writing allows. That would probably turn you into another version of me, which I can't quite imagine, but your silence is indeed unnerving sometimes. I do realise you shared quite a lot of your past in your last and that I should be grateful for that insight into it, which I understand I had no right to, but I reassure you, my curiosity springs from affection...you lout._

_And now I'm going to be quite horrible and take the opportunity you so gallantly offered when you promised to listen. I'm going to wholly unburden myself._

_After my last performance of Macbeth I was a bit maudlin and in quite a state. I suddenly realised I had an awful lot of time on my hands and didn't know what to do with it. In an effort to be proactive about chasing joy, I decided to catch up on all those activities I had, due to work, missed during the preceding months._

_I attended a couple of art exhibitions. I woke up early, put on sober clothes and walked down white washed and equally sober museum aisles stabbed through by mid-morning sun rays that had the colour of nectarines. It was quite the injection of beauty._

_The bookshops I went to had floors that creaked and shelves bent over by the weight of books, the air saturated with a subtle scent of leather and paper. The poetry recital I attended was held in a little room in Bloomsbury with brown walls, brown furniture and wooden floors, a girl perched on a grey stool and wrapped in grey wools, read out from a little red book that seemed to be the only source of colour in the room._

_I went to a race or two, the Cheveley Park Stakes and the St Leger Stakes, at which I met your father. I was going down the stands, when I bumped into him. At first I didn't realise it was him. I'd simply ran into a man dressed in greys, barring the pristine whiteness of his collar. But when he turned, I most definitely recognised him. We struck up a brief conversation. He enquired after my health and asked me I was doing. “I'm doing quite well, Mr Pendragon,” I said._

_“I hear the muses are treating you well.”_

_“If by that you mean that my show did well, then, yes, it did,” I said, tipping my head to the side in acknowledgement. “We got some pretty good reviews. I'm overall proud.”_

_“I'm glad,” your father said, digging the point of his umbrella into the soil. “Though all this success is probably influencing your private life. I suppose you're not entertaining any thoughts of marrying and leaving show business yet?”_

_“None at all,” I said, puffing my chest out. “And even if I did get married, I would never abandon my vocation. I'd be both, a wife and an actress.”_

_“Well,” your father said, looking down. “I'll acknowledge that perhaps you're not entirely mistaken in not wholly entrusting your happiness to marriage. In my day it was much simpler. You loved a woman dearly, married her, and you were guaranteed contentedness... I was blessed, but I see how people can feel as though they can't achieve that in this day and age.”_

_I really didn't know what to say then, Arthur, because I knew Uther had been honest when he'd mentioned his wife. Though I was itching to speak up about the rights of working women, I stayed silent. “I've been dealing with Arthur's divorce papers while he's away,” your father said, not really changing the subject, it seemed to me, as examining another aspect of it. He turned his head, his profile stark in the grey day, wetted his lips, and then gazed right back at me. “And let's say I'm staggered by the aggressive, upstart requests Guinevere's solicitor is making.”_

_My lips twitched then. “Mr Knightley's aggression is a clear proof of love.”_

_Mr Pendragon's jaw ticked. “I believe your treading the stage so often has negatively impacted your ideas as to what is acceptable in society. What constitutes proof of love.”_

_“Mr Pendragon, I assure you,” I told him, throwing my light scarf back over my shoulder, “my treading the boards has done nothing but give me a better insight into people.”_

_Mr Pendragon's hand closed around the polished wooden handle of his sturdy black umbrella, and he said, “I see why you're my son's friend.”_

_“I certainly do respect your son and that's why I call him friend.”_

_“Yes, it's a pity that that is all it is.”_

_“You'll find our relationship is perfect as it is,” I said, winging an eyebrow._

_Uther didn't say anything to that. “If you hear from my son,” he said at last, knuckling his temple with his free hand, “please tell him that's it's disgraceful he hasn't written to me yet.”_

_“I'll try and remind him.”_

_“Please, do.” With that he tipped his hat up, and walked away, leaving the imprint of his soles in the mud. Somehow he left me thinking I had displeased him greatly._

_When the pavements became shiny with rain, and the sky that grey that promised autumn, I realised I shouldn't dedicate myself to any more open air pastimes. With this in mind, on a less than fine Thursday afternoon I directed my steps to the cinematographer. On the way over, huge white houses hulked over me, appearing colourless and a little sad, despite the luxury their Georgian façades displayed. My umbrella open, I picked my way carefully, trying not to slip on the wet asphalt, large orange leaves dotting the street. When I arrived at the Curzon, I shook my umbrella dry, left it in a stand, and fished my purse out of my hand bag. I had just finished counting the money necessary for the purchase of a ticket and joined the queue, when the person before me turned around. “Mr Morholt, what are you doing here?” I said, my hand on my breast._

_“Why,” he said, holding up his ticket, “I'm all eager to see this showing of Singing in the Rain. A friend of mine was of the opinion it was a smashing film.”_

_“Galahad Ross said the same to me.”_

_Mr Morholt laughed jovially. “I'm afraid the friend who recommended this film to me was the very same Galahad Ross.”_

_“Oh, I should have guessed,” I said, smiling._

_“Well, I always do trust the opinion of an actor on such matters.”_

_The person behind us cleared their throat. “I should probably get my ticket,” I said, knowing I couldn't hold up the queue too long. Before I approached the counter I put my hand on Mr Morholt's wrist and said, “I was thinking maybe we could see the film together?”_

_“I was about to propose the same.”_

_I made sure to ask the seller for the seat next to Mr Morholt's._

_In the cinema the lights went down until I could only see the silhouettes of the people in front of me and hear the creaking of their seats each time they moved. At my side I felt the warmth of Morholt's arm while the silver screen glittered bright in front of me. Within the first few minutes the film proved to be funny and light-hearted. I was pleased to find that Morholt laughed at the same parts I did and that he tapped his foot at the same time I felt the urge to. During the scene in which Debbie Reynolds kisses both Gene Kelly and Donald O'Connor, we smiled at each other. With similar smiles we exited the cinematographer. It was still raining but not so much that an umbrella was actually required._

_“Well, damn,” said Mr Morholt, looking at the rain water sleeking the asphalt to a dark oiliness that glinted in the light cast by the street lamps. It coursed through the gutters too, a dirty cusp of it surging over the pavement. “Now I feel tempted to jump into that puddle.”_

_My lips twitched. “I have to admit that I do feel the same.”_

_“Then let's,” said Mr Morholt, offering his arm._

_I hooked mine around his and jumped right into the puddle at the same time he did. We raised quite a lot of water that sparkled as it lifted. And sacrificed our clothing in the bargain. My shoes were soaked at the tip and his squeaked when he moved. His trousers and my mac were splashed through as well. “Oh dear,” said Mr Morholt. “I suppose this doesn't quite work the way it does in films, does it?”_

_“No,” I admitted, feeling how squishy my own shoes were and how wet my hair was. “But it was glorious for as long as it lasted.”_

_“Indeed it was,” said Mr Morholt, brushing down his coat, as if that could help him achieve a more reputable look. “Though much of the joy came from the company.”_

_Though the wind was pushing my hair into my mouth, I said, “The same goes for me.”_

_“Well, in that vein then,” Mr Morholt said, looking down at me, “What if I asked you if I could escort you home?”_

_“I'd say that I'd be very happy to walk with you.”_

_We walked arm in arm through the rain-spattered streets, the water coursing underfoot in small rivers. When the drizzle changed to a proper rain shower, we ducked for the nearest awning and when it eased once more we reprised our march.  
Mr Morholt's eyes were often closed against the wind, and in those moments I guided him forward, my arm looped through his. The bonnets of the cars parked along the streets we trekked along glistened with rain drops. Someone had inscribed their name through the frost across the boot of one. They'd done it in rounded letters that were being eaten at by the condensation. Park railings shone shiny black as though they had been newly painted, and fog licked at pavements. Spheres of condensation swirled around the street lights and at our feet. _

_As we crossed the street, a silver car rumbled past us. By then Mr Morholt and I had got much closer to mine. I toyed with my keys in my pocket and said, “Would you like to come up? You look quite sodden. I'm sure a good cuppa and a seat at my fireplace will warm you up in no time.”_

_“I suppose I should be stoic,” Mr Morholt said, palming his breast. “But I'm not and I shall not refuse your kind offer.”_

_“I'm glad,” I said, finally taking my keys out, looking at the leather key chain they were attached to. “Very glad.”_

_With a rumble and a few exhaust pops that I thought were familiar, a second car started. I looked up in time to see Gwaine behind the wheel of his Somerset. I supposed I must have gasped, for Mr Morholt said, “Is anything wrong, Mithian?”_

_“No,” I said, “nothing's wrong.”_

_But I suppose, Arthur, that something was wrong with me because I have been uneasy since. I have been able to think of little else but Gwaine's presence near my flat and his driving away without coming out to meet me when it was clear, at least to me, that he'd been waiting awhile._

_What should I do to put my mind at rest? Should I seek Gwaine out? Should I wait for him to turn up again and explain what that was all about? Please, dear friend, as you know us both, a word of advice._

_Waiting for it and a fresh new letter from you,_

_yours,_

_Mithian._

 

****** 

 

Arthur put down the letter and massaged his forehead. “Merlin, as someone whose marriage has entirely failed, do you think me entitled to give relationship advice?”

After one last burst of typing, Merlin pulled the page he was working at out of the typewriter. For a moment his pen lay poised over the lines like a falcon ready to swoop down, but then he shook his head, put the pen down and dropped on the sofa seat next to him. Stretching his legs out on the coffee table, Merlin turned towards him, his gaze edged with a penetrating astuteness. “I think you can only give your best advice,” he said. “And make sure your heart's in it. You can't guarantee the person you're advising will act on your suggestion or that if they do everything can be sorted for them. Your marriage ending has nothing to do with any of that.”

“How did you become so wise?” Arthur said, his lips stretching into a wide grin.

Humour sharpened Merlin's gaze. “Oh, now he flatters me... after I've dropped my pearls of wisdom.”

On an impulse he couldn't quite control, Arthur dug his fingers into Merlin's neck where his skin was hot and soft, and pulled him to him, dragging his knuckles across Merlin's scalp until his hair was standing in tufts and clumps that brushed against Arthur's fingers with the sleekness of silk. 

At that Merlin chimed with laughter, huffy and breathless, fending him off only for as long as it took him to reach out around him and find his sides. With an adroitness that Arthur wouldn't have suspected him of, he slipped his hands under Arthur's shirt and tickled his flanks, running his fingertips in a light caress that made Arthur squirm and struggle to hush his laughter. He bit his lips and held his breath. He did this until he couldn't anymore and his eyes were streaming and he had to gasp out, “Don't make me laugh... Don't...”

Merlin didn't stop, his touch light as feathers, clever, ghosting along his belly and then up again. When Arthur trembled, hiccuping short bursts of laughter, Merlin straddled him. “Why, what's wrong with laughter?” he asked quiet and low, dropping his forehead against Arthur’s and breathing softly against his mouth. 

Arthur’s eyes focused on Merlin’s face, tracking every minute change in his expression, the way his eyes rounded with lazy contentment, the way his face coloured up to the tip of his prominent ears, the way little furrows appeared either side of his mouth. It stretched with satisfied, languorous amusement, Arthur noted. “Nothing,” he said, wetting his lips. “Nothing is.”

“Good,” Merlin said, moving his mouth across Arthur's forehead, his face, along his neck, where he tickled him with his teeth. 

Arthur sank his hands into Merlin's hair and pulled him into a kiss, a slide of lips on lips that made him grin into it, his heart a wild metronome against his chest. 

Brushing his mouth against it, Merlin showered Arthur's temple with kisses. 

Arthur sucked in a sharp breath and held it deep in his chest. It twinged with a powerful burst of sensation.

“I need you,” Arthur told Merlin, anchoring both arms around him. “You don't know how much I do.”

“Because I tickled you?” Merlin asked, his lips bowing under the pressure of a smile. 

“No,” Arthur said, pressing a kiss against the curve of Merlin's throat. “It's not because of that.”

Merlin kneaded Arthur's forearm, digging his fingers in. “Is it because you like my kisses?”

Arthur smiled, the pain in his chest sweetening, turning his insides to mush, everything in him softening till he thought he had no sharp angles left and he had to cling to Merlin for all that he was worth so he wouldn't spill his insides outwards. He hauled in a breath, then on its release, said, “No, it's not because of your kisses.”

As if to prove him wrong, Merlin's mouth’s moved along his skin, in a ghost of a glide Arthur felt powerless against, and bared his throat to. These were soft touches, coming in the hundreds, feather-light, a flood of them. They stopped Arthur from breathing, his lungs from working, his brain from functioning.

Merlin nosed forward and with his mouth he found Arthur's lips, holding them between his, parting them with his tongue and dipping his tongue in slow strokes that made Arthur's tail bone melt. He kissed back, gasping into it, grinding against Merlin. When their exchange became hot and heavy, his guts tightened and his cock filled.

When Merlin gave his bottom lip a pinprick of a nip, he groaned softly, a sound released from deep in his chest. God, he wanted Merlin, right here, right now, at this stupid hour of the afternoon that was probably meant for productive activities and not for sex. He wanted with a need that burned his skin and that he couldn't have denied even if he had wanted to. If his father were standing there and told him to stop, Arthur wouldn't have. But that was neither here nor there because this moment was his and Merlin wanted him and Arthur just wished he could lay the world at his feet, because, God, Merlin deserved everything. That he got Arthur was poor luck indeed, but Arthur would do his best, no matter that his best hadn't been enough before.

The position constricting them, Arthur rearranged them, nudging Merlin off him as he sprawled laterally on the sofa. 

Having been forced to stand by Arthur's move, Merlin was quick to find his footing again. He lowered his braces and unbuttoned his trousers. When the zip was down, he nudged his underwear downwards and took his cock out. Without fussing with completely undressing, he moved back towards Arthur. As he did, Arthur took care of his own trousers, pulling them down with his briefs. Before he could lower them much, as if he was too in a hurry to actually let him, Merlin settled on top of him again, one arm braced above his shoulder, the other cupping his neck. His mouth connected with Arthur's again on a gentle collision that soon acquired a much more heady edge. 

With no room for thought, no second guessing, their mouths opened and worked one against the other, their breath tangling in their ins and outs. Emotion expanded from Arthur's ribcage, both outwards and inwards, and it seemed as though there wasn't enough space in the world to contain it. The kiss couldn't, as deep as it got, and Arthur's heart couldn't either. “Merlin,” Arthur said, shifting until their lower bodies aligned. 

Merlin's hips stuttered at that and, as if that was his cue, he took them both in hand. 

Gasping, Arthur framed Merlin's face with both hands, angling it so that he could deepen this new kiss, his tongue sweeping across Merlin's palate and touching the underside of Merlin's own tongue. 

At the change in pace, Merlin surged forward. He pushed against Arthur and into his own palm; he sobbed and writhed.

Gripping Merlin’s shoulders and reeling him close, Arthur moved his hips in upwards snatches that didn't exactly match Merlin's but tried.

“Wait, wait,” Merlin said against his mouth, before rolling off him. “Wait.”

“What?” Arthur said, seeking to grab Merlin so that he could feel him again, the sinking feeling he had at his drawing back simultaneously lodging in his stomach. “Did I do something that put you off? I don't know this so well, I--”

Merlin smiled gently, his cheeks rosy, his eyes kind. “No, no you weren't doing anything wrong. I wanted to get this...” Merlin said, backing towards desk before rooting inside one of its drawers. When he was done, he held up a fat little bottle that had the same label as the one Merlin kept in his bedroom.

Heat bloomed across Arthur’s cheeks in a fiery spread. “Oh, I thought...”

Merlin stepped back towards him, got rid of his bottoms and underwear, and sat back on top of him knees either side of Arthur's bulk despite the distinct lack of space. “I know what you thought,” Merlin said, fitting his lips to his. “I'll tell you when there's something I don't like. Don't worry.”

“All right,” said Arthur, palming Merlin's flanks. “I won't worry. You have a strange power. You just chase all thought away.”

“Oh my God, are you accusing me of making you stupid?”

“No,” Arthur said, clasping his hands on Merlin's back, his arms around him, his head tilted up to watch Merlin. “I'm accusing you of making everything better.”

Merlin looked down, his lashes coming down like a veil. “I can't do miracles, Arthur. You are the only one who can make everything better.”

“Not without you,” Arthur said, feeling cold in his body.

“With or without me,” Merlin said, kissing his head. “That's all you can do.”

“Does this mean,” Arthur said, pushing Merlin back, needing to look him in the eye for this. “...that you're... that you mean to end things?”

“No,” Merlin said in such a raw tone Arthur's body eased and warmth returned to it. “That won't come from me, Arthur.”

“You do...” Arthur cocked his head, lips too fat for coherent speech, brain too clumsy. “You do want to be with me... Like this? Consistently?”

“My God, Arthur, yes.”

“And this,” said Arthur, sparing a glance at their tell-tale nudity. “You're easy with this... I know you must have had more... Done it more.. but you're fine with....”

“God, you silly man, yes, I'm fine with this, drunk on this, you're so... you've got so much passion stashed in you.” Merlin palmed his heart over the shirt that was still between them. “I want to give in to it. I want to feed it, watch it grow, as it should. I want you to be you... in that way as well. And selfishly I just want to do everything with you,” Merlin said. “With you it seems right, more than right... like it couldn't possibly have been before.” He dipped his head. “Like it certainly wasn't before.” 

“I haven't known many who'd agree,” Arthur said, licking his lips and looking as guilelessly as possible up at Merlin, “but with you I feel that this, my... needs, are perfectly right.”

“I'm not magic,” Merlin told him. “I'm not special. This is just you gaining understanding of yourself. But then again you know that.”

Arthur nodded though he wasn't in a place to parse all that. He wanted to live this moment, not to over-think it. “You are though. To me... and that's how it works isn't it?” he said, butting his head against Merlin's chest, rubbing his head against him while Merlin held him.

“Yes,” Merlin said, his chest rumbling with that word. “Yes, that's how it works.”

“I want you,” Arthur said, pressing a kiss in the gap between the folds of Merlin's shirt. “No doubt about it. I have the want of you written in my skin.”

Merlin shook subtly, a little tremor Arthur registered with his body. Then he bobbed his chin and pushed out of the tight embrace Arthur had him in. Without any fuss he reached around and fingered himself open. He made it easy, he made it natural, as though Arthur's heart wasn't climbing up his throat.

Arthur stared and stared till he thought he perhaps shouldn't and dropped his eyes. But Merlin said, “Look at me,” so Arthur did, watched the play of pleasure on his face, the little ticks, the little muscle jerks, the fleeting expressions of pain that came to be displayed there. He loved them all with a fierceness, with a depth, that hit him in the solar plexus and astounded even him. 

By the time Merlin was ready, Arthur gripped Merlin's thighs and held very still as Merlin lowered himself on him, the shock of tightness and human heat almost sending him spiralling into lack of cognizance, into orgasm. It wasn't as good as the corollary though, Merlin's shaking form above him, his belaboured puffs of breath and the little moans he couldn't quite suppress.

Arthur was no better off. He was making noises too. His hips were pressing up and up despite the weight holding him down. His fingers were clawing Merlin's hips, likely leaving bruises. And he was being overwhelmed by the sensations he was showered in, the pressure and grip on his cock, the blanketing presence of another so close he could detect his heart beat, pick out the alterations in his breathing patterns, the spasms of his muscles. The overall impression of Merlin he was getting. It was enough to break a heart, the rightness of this. 

He couldn't contribute much, as lost in that sensory flood as he was. He could only hold and clutch and let himself experience. 

It was Merlin who set the pace, who shifted on top of him, Arthur's cock sliding in and out of him with Arthur doing little to contribute to that, except for feeling it with every pore, and every drop of sweat and every little motion of his body. 

They both made throaty, guttural sounds, Merlin's rise and fall steady, rhythmical, until it wasn't anymore and all Arthur could do was stare up at him with undisguised wonder. He didn't care if Merlin guessed how deep he'd burrowed under Arthur's skin, how he was everything Arthur had ever wanted, that transcendental quantity that he'd always sought and that he now seemed to have found in the physical. On the contrary, he wanted him to find out.

He closed his eyes and felt the rush with his hammering heart. His insides seemingly spread out in laxness. Before he knew it he was shimming his hips up and up in corkscrew motions and shuddering in orgasm, one that came quick, but that, it seemed to him, had equally been a long time coming.

Merlin didn't come. Not right then. He collapsed on top of him, then turned on his side and nuzzled Arthur's face. As he did, he pulled himself off in low strokes that only got his breathing worked up. It was when Arthur touched him, his grip all wrong, and too hesitant, his hand curled around the end of his cock, that he gushed come on his hand. 

“I'm sorry,” Arthur managed. “I should have waited for you. I just--”

Panting Merlin said, “It's all right.”

“I should have thought of you first,” said Arthur, his cheeks smarting with heat. “I'm sorry I...”

“Arthur, you're a bit too concerned with this notion of failing,” Merlin said, wrapping an arm around his middle. “You certainly didn't fail me. Neither did your marriage fail. There's no such thing as that.”

 

Arthur locked their fingers together, perhaps squeezing too hard, which was inevitable given that his body was starting to lose the laxness of release. “I beg to differ.”

“Arthur, marriages don't fail,” Merlin said. “It doesn't happen like that. There are differences of opinion and growing apart, but failure... It's like condemning people for not making the impossible happen.”

Arthur looked aside. “Been married long?”

In a rustle of clothing, Merlin shifted, stretched to grab his discarded briefs and pulled them up. “You know I haven't.”

Arthur swallowed, a cold wave blanketing his brain. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to...”

“Arthur, all I was trying to say is that a marriage ending is not something you can be found at fault for. It's life and circumstance, not a badge of dishonour.”

“Maybe for others,” Arthur said, his eyes on the light fixtures. “But I was responsible.”

 

***** 

 

Gwen brought the casserole to the table, placing it at the centre. When it was positioned to her liking, she rearranged the dishes, napkins, and place-holders. The lighting fixtures up above illuminated the white table spread, the crystal glasses and the metal shakers and bowls.

The doorbell rang.

“Oh God,” Gwen said, looking to the door as she smoothed the apron flattening her wide skirt. “Our guests are frighteningly early. I'm not presentable yet. Could you get the door while I dash into the other room?”

“Of course,” Arthur said, taking big strides towards the door as Gwen disappeared into the other room. 

Arthur opened the door. Five people were waiting on the landing. Freddy Balan and his wife Sophia were front and centre, Freddy in a big woollen coat and Sophia in pastels, a fur stole wrapped around her neck, her hat gently askew on her light brown up-do. Behind them were Gwen's friend from the charity, Maud, in grey and black, pearls accentuating her long Modigliani neck and her husband, Geoff, the fellow from the insurance company Gwen kept telling him about and he kept forgetting the name of. He was holding a bottle of wine by the neck, while his wife was balancing a patisserie tray wrapped in transparent plastic and ornamented by a lavish ribbon in her hands. To Freddy's left stood a tall, close shaven, lanky man, his hair cut close to his skull, his eyes bright and clever. Though his features had roughened into those of an adult, Arthur recognised him as Gareth Aston. 

Arthur took a step back.

“We're a tad early,” announced Sophia. “I hope you don't mind.”

“Oh and,” said Freddy, grabbing Gareth by the shoulder. “I brought an old friend. I met him at the Bar of the Metropolitan and couldn’t believe my eyes. I hope you're fine with me extending the invitation.”

“Oh yes,” said Arthur, blinking a couple of times, arms stiff at his sides. “Of course, I'm entirely fine with it.”

Arthur's guests trotted in, Sophia spearheading the group, Aston last, trailing after them. Though Gareth didn't say anything, he held Arthur's gaze.

When Arthur was at his busiest searching for words, Gwen came back in. She no longer had her apron on and she had let her hair down, though it was fixed back at the side by a jewel hair clip. She put a hand on Arthur's side and the other on his chest, leaning into him, but facing their guests with a welcoming smile. “I'm so glad you could all make it,” she said, her gaze encompassing everyone. “I should probably have made sure everything was ready sooner, but... I wanted everything to turn out just so and...”

“Oh we all know that perfection requires time,” Freddy said. “I hope you don't mind that I asked Gareth here to tag along...He's an old school fellow of Arthur and mine's. When I met him I couldn't resist.”

“Of course not,” Gwen said, reaching her hand out and shaking Gareth's quickly, firmly. “The more the merrier. And I actually have food for ten.”

“That's always good to hear,” said Geoff, handing Gwen the wine.

The others chuckled at his expression of greed over the food.

“Oh my God, no, please don't over feed him,” said Maud, directing her appeal to the group while tapping her husband's light paunch. Then to him she said, “You'll make yourself ill.”

“I'm not ill...”

“Not now,” said Maud, in a lower tone she must have thought made the pronouncement more private. “But you will be if you get on like that.”

“Maud, not in front of our friends!” Geoff hissed, then with too wide a smile he said, “The troubles of having a younger wife.” Winking at Arthur and Freddy, he added, “Which you two strapping young fellows wouldn't know about.”

Not long afterwards they were passing each other bowls around the table, filling plates, the sound of cutlery echoing in the room.

“So,” said Gwen, passing Maud the bowl with the peas, “how come I didn't know you were one of Arthur's old school chums, Gareth?”

Gareth looked up, fork frozen and clutched like a knife. “Probably because I was only briefly at Rugby. Less than a whole school year even.”

“Oh,” Gwen said, her head tilted to the side so that her hair brushed one shoulder and not the other. “How come you left so soon? Didn't you like Rugby? Arthur here--” She clamped his forearm. “--says the school was very formative for him.”

“The curriculum was excellent,” said Gareth, his body poised in stillness. “But the place just didn't agree with me. It happens sometimes.”

“I see,” Gwen said, though Arthur knew she didn't. “I suppose public schools must be like that.”

“Not that changing schools harmed him,” Balan chimed in. “Not in the least. As a matter of fact Aston here told me he had a very good job in the foreign service. Didn't you say you've just returned from South America?”

“Yes, I was the attaché’s secretary in Buenos Aires,” said Gareth. “I took the job in '48 and was at it till a few months ago, when Lord Mansfield retired. They asked me to stay on and work with the new attaché, but I'd known Mansfield well.” Gareth picked up his wine glass and drank from it. “And I didn't know this new fellow at all...”

“I can see how that can be awkward,” said Balan.

“Yes, and...” Gareth put his glass down. “I thought to myself, 'I've been abroad long enough. I want to go home...’”

“Are you planning to settle down now that you're back?” Maud asked, dabbing at the corner of her mouth with a napkin. “I don't know, marrying, buying a house?”

Geoff burst out laughing. “Oh dear, do I have to remind my wife that I'm still alive? It looks to me like she's already trying to move on.”

Maud hit Geoff in the chest with her napkin. “You silly idiot. You know that's not what I meant. I was making polite conversation.”

Sophia patted Maud's hand. “There, there. We girls understood you, dear. It's your husband that's not equipped to.”

Maud tilted her head back, squinted. “That's too right. Isn't it, Gwen?”

Gwen smiled.

Gareth wasn't asked the question again so he fell silent, eating pickily and occasionally grasping his glass though he didn't lift it or drink from it. He just drummed his knuckles against the stem. The conversation became more general again, not focusing on anyone in particular. Gwen and Maud discussed their charity; Geoff's eyes grew puffier the more he ate, while Sophia kept brushing lint off Freddy's shoulders, her knuckles grazing his neck again and again in an errant game Arthur must suppose wasn't accidental. The stone in her ring kept catching the light and shining merrily, brightly.

Arthur didn't join the conversation much. He ate slowly, methodically, but made a point of clearing his plate. He started with the sides and cut up his meat in sizeable bites before subdividing them into even smaller pieces. From time to time he looked up and surveyed the others: Gwen nodding her head as she engaged Maud, challenging her charity strategies with a firm hand and a smile; Sophia blushing, knocking shoulders with Balan; Balan asking after Gwaine.

“You're still in touch?” Gareth asked, in a tone that was so starkly reminiscent of their school days, so earnest and polite in his surprise that Arthur couldn't help be thrown. For a heartbeat it was as if no time had passed, as if he hadn't grown into a man, with a job and a wife, nine to five routines, as if Gareth hadn't grown into this adult who'd been to Argentina and back. 

“Yes,” Arthur said, choked. “Yes, I am.” The quality of the light in the room seemed to change for him, to become more garish. The voices of his dinner companions turned to a buzz too, an indistinguishable cacophony of human voices. He squinted in the distance, focusing on the stark lines of their furniture, on the light polished shine of the metal fixtures and the white leather of their sofas, something solid, easy on the eyes. Wasn't that why Gwen and he had chosen that colour scheme, because it was easy on the eyes? Neutral? But the deluge of whiteness didn't help Arthur find his footing. Rather he kept feeling out of step with the moment.

When Geoff said, “I can't say I wouldn't be glad for a second helping,” Arthur stood up with a clatter of his chair and said, “I'll go and get more from the kitchen.” 

He left the balled up napkin next to his plate and walked into the other room. On the worktop was a Pyrex dish identical to the one Gwen had arranged on the living room table. Arthur saw that it contained another side of mutton. He took up the carving knife from the drawer, sliced a few thin slices, and transferred them to a clean dish he got from the drainer. 

He stopped, took a breath, spooned some sauce on top of the meat, but spilled some. A dense brown pool of it meandered down the stainless steel surface and dripped onto the tiles. Arthur was making for the mop they kept in a cupboard hidden in the corner, when someone cleared their throat behind him. 

“I thought I could perhaps help,” Gareth said, leaning against the dresser closest to the door.

“I think I've got it,” Arthur said, opening the cupboard door to get the mop.

“To be quite honest,” Gareth said, folding his arms, unfolding them and crossing them again, “I didn't really think I could be useful in the kitchen.”

Arthur held the mop's handle very tight, till the sides of his fingers hurt. “I'm not particularly good at it either. It's Gwen... Gwen who does everything.”

“She does look very...” Gareth said, stepping forward... “Put together.”

Arthur started cleaning the floor. 

“When Balan said,” Gareth told him, “I thought I wouldn't come. But then he told me about you and I had to see.”

“I don't understand why,” Arthur said, looking up, his lower lip curling outward. “You never even said you'd change schools. You just left.” Despite having concentrated on other things back when that had happened, the thought had stung, leaving him shrouded in an aloneness that had had little to do with how close he'd grown to Gareth and everything to do with the fact it was a solitude he couldn't talk about. “Vanished. You didn't say...”

“No, I suppose I didn't,” Gareth said, advancing so that he was standing in the middle of the room, very close to Arthur, taller than he had been as a boy, slightly wider, with a different barycentre to him. “I suppose I was quite a coward then.”

“Has South America changed you?” Arthur said, wanting to bring up this different world he knew little about, so that he could pretend that that was the springboard for Gareth's actions today, his outrageous reappearance. He hoped framing his gestures in this unknown context would perhaps help them make sense. 

“Maybe,” Gareth said, grabbing the mop's handle a little lower than Arthur was. “But I think... It was bound to happen. Acceptance.”

“Acceptance?” Arthur's throat worked in a painfully dry swallow. 

“We strive and strive,” Gareth said, “ignoring who we are all the time.”

“Weren't you...” Arthur tailed off, his lips cracking from their dryness. “Weren't you already the person you were meant to be then?”

“I believe I was,” Gareth said, cocking his head to bring it level with Arthur's. “But I didn't let myself be. I believe I took the path of least resistance. That is why I left school. At the time it was a good idea. I focused on improving myself, becoming the best student I could be, and a good staffer later...”

“Duty isn't the path of least resistance,” Arthur said, squaring his shoulders, though Gareth's words took his breath from its source.

His toes and Gareth's toes brushed when he moved closer. “I think you're confusing issues now.”

“Confusing them?” The words burst out of Arthur, sudden and raw. 

“I did then too,” Gareth said. “A lot.”

“You were different then....” Arthur pointed out. “You said so yourself.”

Gareth bowed his head. “You are right. I was. But that doesn't mean I don't recognise patterns now. Maybe I do because I went through them.”

To his utter confusion, Arthur's heart raced. He wanted to ask questions, to poke at what Gareth meant. It seemed important that he get it. There seemed to be something momentous about it, about Gareth. For years he hadn't thought about him, purposefully perhaps, but now he loomed large again. It made no sense, not a lick of it, but so it was. “And now you're here.”

“And now I'm here,” Gareth said, placing a hand on Arthur's arm, below the shoulder, well above his elbow.

Arthur breathed through his nostrils, his eyes scalded. When Gareth sidled closer, it felt once again as though he hadn't grown up at all. He didn't see his kitchen then, not the calming, clean patterns of the tiles and not the sleek mass of the steely greys. He only saw a close up of Gareth, how shorn his head looked now that his hair had been tamed to a close shave, how there were a couple of lines either side of his mouth that gave his face a new sharpness that hadn't been there before. But above all Arthur's eyes darted to Gareth's mouth, defining the shape of it in his mind. It ought to have been a hard and rugged line. But it wasn't. It had a softness to it that seemed quite sweet.

With a measure of drunkenness of the mind, he gasped. Gareth tilted his head, his fingertips on Arthur's face. 

“Arthur,” Gwen said, nervously twisting her hands together, as if she was holding back from saying something she didn't wish to, something she didn't want to put her mind to. “You were taking your time.”

 

**** 

 

Merlin grabbed his face in his palm and angled it so that Arthur would be forced to meet his eyes. “That must have been painful for the both of you,” Merlin said, “but could you have helped it? In the long run?”

“No,” Arthur said, breathing slowly out. “I should have told her, but I didn't... I didn't want to know, Merlin.”

“I get that,” Merlin said, kissing his lips, his nose, rubbing their faces together. “And in a perfect world you wouldn't have made that mistake. But the world isn't perfect and I understand why you ended in that place.”

“You never did though,” Arthur said, his eyes burning. “I know you never hurt anyone.”

Merlin pushed one of his legs between his. “I never made that particular mistake because I knew when I was fairly young. But I made so many others.” Merlin's voice got gravelly. “I am not proud of a lot of them.”

“Merlin,” Arthur said, wanting Merlin to speak up about them, talk to him. Arthur shouldn't be the only one allowed to unburden himself. It was unfair. “You can tell me.”

Merlin circled his thumb around Arthur's jaw. “I guess in a way my mistakes were my choice and got me here to boot. So they mustn’t have been all that bad.”

Arthur pulled Merlin to him.

“I don't regret anything,” Merlin said, twisting the hair at Arthur's nape around his finger. “I don't want to.”

 

****

 

The sun casting his rays over him, Merlin wrote on in his diary, taking notes about his surroundings, looking up from time to time, tapping his pen against his mouth before reprising his scribblings. His jacket was stained at the elbow with the rain that had drenched the water-logged picnic table he was sitting at. From time to time he batted a wasp away, but the wasps kept coming back and Merlin kept fighting them, hunching over his notes when the battle seemed lost.

Arthur smiled. “Try putting some copper coins on the table.”

Merlin turned, recoiling when a wasp nearly climbed up his nose. “Would that really make a difference or are you talking witch lore here?”

“Yes, I've gone all shamanistic on you,” Arthur said, taking his pen out from his pocket. “That's entirely it. You've caught me out.”

Merlin's lips unfurled to show a toothy, sideways grin. “You're an utter idiot, aren't you?”

“Takes one to know one,” Arthur said, putting pen to paper, trying to wrench his thoughts away from Merlin, as hard as that seemed lately. 

With an effort at concentration, he did.

_Dear Mithian,_

_I don't know what to tell you about Gwaine. I would confront him, most certainly, but then again that's a decision you, and you alone, can take. All thoughts of my old school chum aside, I'm glad you have found a friend in Andy Morholt. From what you tell me, he seems like a civil, upright man. I just can't help but ask you, however unwise that probably is, to listen to Gwaine's reasons when and if you feel ready to._

_With you being both my friends, it's what I wish. That's selfish perhaps. I understand that._

_Never hesitate to write in any circumstance or to make any request of me,_

_Arthur._

_PS: Today Merlin and I went to the Acropolis. It was as busy as you might imagine, crowds milling this way and that, guides raising their voices so they could keep track of their charges, children whizzing past. When the site became impossible to navigate, Merlin sat on a stump of a column, twirling his hat in his hands, though for the most part he used it to point to this or that feature of the excavation. At one point and quite out of the blue, he tipped his chin at the statue of Plato. “I'm whole,” he said, a propos nothing._

_It took me a while to remember my old lessons about the Platonic school of thought but when I did, a smile broke away from me, one that pulled at my muscles and most assuredly made me look silly._

_I think that's what I want to tell you about Merlin today._

Arthur looked up from his writing and at Merlin. He wasn't taking notes anymore. He was sitting there with both arms on the picnic table, his eyes slitted against the late September sun, which was peeping between lilac laced clouds. 

_Sometimes I think there's still much I don't know about him. Sometimes I feel as though there's something he's not telling me. Maybe he's chosen to do so because he's convinced he has to shelter me from that. It's patently ridiculous._

“You're staring at me,” Merlin told him, though he neither moved nor widened his eyes past the tiny fissures they now were. Arthur couldn't see how he'd guessed since his vision must have been pretty impaired by that.

“Yes,” Arthur said, filling his lungs with oxygen as he inhaled. “Yes, I am.” 

 

***** 

 

_Dear Arthur,_

_Thank you for your candid advice in your last. I wouldn't have wished otherwise from you. I can always trust your honesty, and though your opinion may be biased, I know it's biased by love._

_I did follow your suggestion. When I put down your letter, I changed, put my coat on, and hailed a cab. I let it drop me in Brentford._

_This was only the second time I'd ever been at Gwaine's, and the first time I ventured there in daylight, so I let myself properly take in my surroundings. Perhaps I was dithering, but I clearly remember studying the area for some reason. I'd known beforehand that Gwaine occupied the attic flat of a terrace house, but I hadn't noticed that his flat sat on top of a pub, which was, in turn, squeezed in between a fish and chip shop and a barber's establishment. I hadn't realised the place was quite so close to the canal – with its deep cement basins and sluggish flow – either. Peering out of the taxi windows on the way over, I had in fact seen two barges anchored quite close to the High Street._

_Briefly, I wondered how Gwaine could live there, how he could bear to put up with the incessant traffic going on before his very door. Between the pub, the chippy and the canal, which surely disgorged workers at every hour of the day, it must have been very loud, and never quiet enough for rest. But then I thought again and understood that must have been what appealed to Gwaine._

_I smiled and entered the building. Gwaine's flat was on the third floor, squeezed onto a landing only brightened by one single window. I rang the bell. When Gwaine answered it, he was half undressed. He had his trousers and socks on but nothing else. “I-- um,” he said, when he saw me there._

_“Can I come in?”_

_“Now, now, Mithian,” he said, “you know it's not proper.”_

_My eyebrow shot up. “Since when do you care about conventions and propriety?”_

_“All right,” Gwaine said, pushing off the door and making way for me. “All right. But when tongues start wagging don't say I didn't warn you.”_

_He closed the door behind us and led us to the living room. The roof of it sloped. At its lowest, where the window was, it might have been four feet and some. A brown leather sofa was stuck in the space there. Upon this Gwaine sat. He gestured for me to take the chair opposite, half the length of Gwaine's flat between us._

_I sank into it. “You were at mine the other day.”_

_Gwaine didn't deny it. He grunted rather._

_“I would like to know why.”_

_Gwaine fetched a sigh and rubbed his hand down his face. “You know why I was. I'm not making this easy for you, Mithian.”_

_It stung, I admit. While I could guess at the reason why Gwaine kept prodding me, I asked myself how he could possibly be playing this game if he had any affection for me. “You wanted to stake a claim.”_

_Gwaine turned his head and made a scoffing sound._

_“That was your way of saying you care for me,” I said, knowing this assessment was more accurate._

_“You're getting closer,” Gwaine said. He leant forward, legs splayed wide, hands folded together. “But that's not the correct answer yet.”_

_My ears rang. My cheeks bloomed with heat. I shifted. I tapped my shoe on the floor. “You love me then, that's what you meant to say.”_

_Gwaine straightened, looked me directly in the eyes. “I see you're finally seeing the light.”_

_“Stop joking, Gwaine,” I said, standing up as if some unseen hands had pushed me._

_“Why should I?” Gwaine asked, cocking his head back. “This is who I am.”_

_“Because this is serious,” I said, digging my sole into the floor. “Fuck it, Gwaine, you know this is.”_

_“It's life,” Gwaine said with a roll of his shoulders. “They tell me it's serious.”_

_“Oh no,” I told him. “You don't get to do that. You're poking and prodding at me--” I held my finger up. “You'll be poked and prodded right back.”_

_Gwaine stood, walked up to me, grabbed me by the neck and kissed me, opening my mouth and working his tongue against mine. I must confess I kissed back. My heart squeezed in my chest and I kissed him back, gasping and moaning, my breathing getting fully ragged. It was the sounds I was making that brought me back to reality, that caused me to push Gwaine back. “Gwaine, you've come at this from the worst possible angle.”_

_“I don't know how else to do it,” he said, his chest rising and falling. “I'm not... I'm not a dull, cautious, upstanding citizen, you know that, dolly.”_

_I fetched a sigh. “Gwaine, that's the problem with you.”_

_“I'm not serious enough for you, am I?” Gwaine said, stepping back from me. “I'm not an entitled middle-class man like that fellow you're going out with.”_

_“Oh now,” I said, clacking my tongue, “you're not doing this. You went to school with Arthur. You're not using your pretend working class status to attack Andy now.”_

_Gwaine's eyebrow flashed upwards. “Arthur told you.”_

_“Don't blame him now,” I said, not wanting to embroil you in this. “He said nothing about you but that you were school mates. Should he have lied?”_

_Gwaine turned around, his shoulders going up. “No, he shouldn't have lied.”_

_“That's the problem with you, Gwaine,” I said, talking to his back because he wouldn't turn. “You want others to face things and be bold. But are you as bold as you want us to be?”_

_Gwaine whirled round. “No, perhaps not. But that doesn't make my love any less real.”_

_“But it does make it impossible for me to accept your behaviour,” I said, and as I said it I realised how true it was._

_Gwaine said, “But 'Andy's works just fine.”_

_“See,” I pointed at him, “that's what I was talking about.”_

_“I can't be him,” said Gwaine, his eyes smaller, darker, his stare challenging._

_“I don't want you to be him,” I said, because I didn't want that; the thought was ludicrous. “But I want to be with someone openly and honestly with no subterfuge and no posturing. Can you do that here and now?”_

_Gwaine raked a hand through his hair and sniffed through his nostrils. “I don't... I can't promise that.”_

_I didn't want to say it. My heart shrunk a little and I felt my head lighten somewhat. But I did have to because I knew I couldn't change Gwaine – it wouldn't be fair – and that he couldn't alter my expectations either. “Then we can't work out.”_

_Gwaine's intake of breath was loud. “Is that... Is there any chance of that changing?”_

_Though I had tears in my eyes, I smiled. “Yes, there is.”_

_“I'll keep that in mind then.”_

_“In the meanwhile,” I walked up to him and took his hand. “I want us to stay friends. We might get together or drift apart, but I always want to think of you in friendship.”_

_“You're never going to be anything less than my dearest friend.”_

_Before I could cry, I left. Mine was perhaps a hurried exit and I'm sure there were more things we had left to discuss, but I felt I'd fought enough battles for one day. I was weary of thought and couldn't quite bear to dwell on all these sensations that were coming at me from all sides. I needed time. I needed it like I needed air to breathe._

_I'm still glad I took your advice, Arthur. Our feelings had to come out, to be in the open. Though I’m still sniffling in my handkerchief as I write this, I'm glad I saw Gwaine today. There I've said it... I'm glad and a bit sad, but mainly hopeful about the future. And that I am hopeful and facing my life with my eyes open is entirely up to you. Thank you so much for being my sounding board on this issue._

_All the love,_

_Mithian_

_PS: Merlin sounds lovely and as though he has a thorough grasp of the essentials in life. His Plato love quote was very touching indeed. I can safely say I'm absolutely keen to meet him._

 

****

 

Merlin held up two ties. “Which one do you think looks the most professional?”

Arthur hesitated on the answer, humming a little. At last he settled for saying, “Neither, to be quite honest.”

“Oh,” Merlin said, dropping his arms so that the ties brushed the floor. “I really don't know how to cut the right appearance, you know, solid, sober, trustworthy.”

Arthur pushed off the bed and walked over to Merlin. He kissed his cheek and took the ties from him. “You aren't like that though...” Arthur went cross-eyed, trying to redefine the concept he'd just so badly expressed. “I don't mean to say you're not trustworthy, but you're not the rest either.”

“You're making me sound like a horrible person,” Merlin said, his nose wrinkling. “I'm not crazy.”

“No,” Arthur agreed. “But you're not...a boring, stilted, unemotional middle class fellow. Let's not pretend you're that.”

“You're asking a publisher to trust me as I am,” Merlin said, his eyes slitting as he parsed what Arthur had told him. “Just me, Merlin Emrys.”

“You already got published,” Arthur pointed out.

Merlin hiccuped in disbelief. “Travel guides, Arthur. That's completely different.”

“You were the one talking about how we should find our niche,” Arthur said, slinging Merlin's ties over his shoulder to free his hands so he could grab Merlin by the forearms. “Come to terms with ourselves. And now you want to fit in this preconceived notion of what an upstanding author should be like?”

Merlin's lips formed into a slow smile. “You know, you're right.”

“Because I'm parroting you?” Arthur asked, tilting his head, hands sliding to his hips.

“Yes, that's entirely it. I'm in love with myself,” Merlin said, pinching his sides. “But honestly that was a pretty wise thing to say.”

Arthur grabbed Merlin by the waist, grounding himself by virtue of touch. No matter how much he was getting used to the idea he could be free with it, with being tactile, at least in private, the concept still left him staggering like a drunkard. “I'm not wise at all,” Arthur said, breathing Merlin in, pressing a kiss under his ear, a swift buss that was all lips. “But I think I have fair idea of how unhappy you'd be if you tried to become a person you're not. So just be yourself and stun them.”

“Arthur,” Merlin said, stepping back from his embrace, chewing his lip. “Can I ask you something?”

“Yes, of course,” Arthur said. He'd asked so much of Merlin, he believed it was high time he did something in return. “You can ask everything of me, literally.”

A dimple hollowed Merlin's cheek. “Well, that is a lot to offer, and I wouldn't take you up on it anyway because you'd probably be so noble as to comply...”

“Now you're poking fun at principles,” Arthur said, because as he saw it, that was what Merlin was doing right now. 

“No,” Merlin said, circling his thumb around the part of Arthur's jaw that stuck out the most. “I'm just incredulous in my admiration...” With a quick self-effacing move, he cast his eyes down. “But that's neither here nor there. What I wanted to ask you was whether you'd come with me to the meeting. I'll introduce you as a business savvy friend, don't worry, just please come... Or my gastric juices will be eating at my insides the whole time.”

Arthur threw his shoulders back. “I'd be proud to be there.” He ticked his head to the side. “That's what you've been hesitating so long to ask me?”

“Yes, actually,” Merlin said, his eyes sheepishly searching the room. “I thought it would be awfully presumptuous of me to think you would want to spend your time that way.”

Arthur said, “It's not presumptuous. That's what I want to do, spend my time that way.”

Merlin straightened and lanced him with a look of pure joy.

 

***** 

 

They took a yellow bus that cut through residential areas made up of clusters of white buildings. Clumps of cypress trees broke the view here and there, glossy green against the paler hues of city masonry. Traffic was slow, desultory. Sometimes a cart drawn by a donkey and laden with fruit the colour of sun bursts mingled with it only to be left behind when the other vehicles, solid cars with rounded bonnets and glossy paint, powered up a slope, leaving the horse drawn conveyances in the dust. 

They passed the presidential palace, a rectangular building with a colonnaded front. Before the unknown soldier monument the Tsoliades paraded, wearing their pleated kilts and tasselled fezes. The bus trundling further away down the large avenue, Arthur lost sight of them. 

They got off close to Constitution Square, not far at all from their destination. The premises of the Hotel Grand Bretagne sat in a huge building that occupied nearly a whole side of the square site. Tall and rectangular, porticoed all around, balconies lining every floor, it had both an impressive bulk and an old-world air about it. 

“It's grander than any place I've ever been to,” Merlin told him from behind the cover of his hand as they walked past the hotel's concierge. 

“These people,” Arthur said, wanting to squeeze Merlin's hand, but aware he couldn't, “are no different from you. They can just afford to be a little more lavish about the places they frequent.”

Merlin bobbed his head. “Yeah, intellectually I get that. But all this luxury is just hard to come to terms with.”

The lift opened onto the top floor. Past a carpeted hallway and a set of French windows, they walked onto the terrace. Because of the hotel's position the view spanned a large swathe of the city, from east to west. Right opposite them, though miles distant in reality, the Acropolis perched on top of a hill.

The balcony was tiled in terracottas, an intricate pattern of beiges and browns that were highly glazed and polished, and across which fell the shadows of the passing waiters. The floor looked to be divided into sections marked off by trellises around which climbing plants wound, the occasional bloom interrupting the monotony of green. Tables dotted it in files of twos. They were clothed in white and beige, the napkins a punch of gold and red. 

One of these tables was wedged in a corner right up against the rail. The person sitting with his back to the view was a middle aged man with gelled back ginger hair and dark rimmed glasses sitting atop his nose. 

“That must be Mr Muirden,” Merlin said, as he made his way over to him. 

Arthur followed behind. 

“Mr Muirden?” Merlin said, disturbing the man from his perusal of the menu. “I'm Merlin Emrys, we talked on the phone.”

Putting the menu down, Mr Muirden rose. “Yes, of course, Mr Emrys. It's a pleasure.”

After they'd shaken hands, Merlin introduced Arthur to Mr Muirden. “Mr Muirden, this is my friend, Arthur Pendragon. Arthur this is Edwin Muirden from Chatto and Windus.”

“It's a pleasure,” Arthur said, grasping Muirden's hand. 

“Pendragon.” Muirden hummed. “Are you by any chance related to the MP?”

“Yes,” Arthur said, taking his place at the table with Muirden and Merlin. “Uther. He's my father.”

“Well,” Muirden said, spreading his napkin on his knees, “I can safely say I admire both his politics and his public persona.”

After having shared a look with Merlin, Arthur said, “I'll be sure to pass that on when I hear from him.”

They had tea served in a decorated china pot that boasted a leaf motif, tiny rhomboid stems chasing each other around the bottom and the rim. This pot rested next to several little cups and saucers. Linen serviettes cushioned silver flatware, while silver tongs stood propped against a bowl containing cubed brown sugar. Real cream had been poured in a pitcher that crowded the cups. 

As they made light conversation, they had cake too, fat slices of steamed carrot pudding, covered in nuts and cream cheese frosting, and a chocolate concoction that was topped by sugar roses. Merlin didn't touch much of his food and Arthur only ate half of what was on his dish, rather busy watching Merlin's profile. Muirden, though, cleared his plate and asked for seconds.

“I feel that in situations such as this one should always indulge oneself,” Muirden says. “The food here is spectacular.”

Only once he'd finished his second helping did Muirden start to talk business. He placed a typewritten manuscript on the table and adjusted his spectacles so that they sat half way on his nose. Red circles drawn around sentences littered the text. There were chicken scrawl-like foot notes at the bottom of the first page that looked like anything but writing. “First of all,” Muirden began, “I want you to know, Mr Emrys, that we at Chatto and Windus loved your novel.”

“I'm glad,” Merlin said, with some hesitance.

“And we want you to know,” Muirden continued, turning random manuscript pages, “that our firm isn't against publishing it.”

Merlin shifted on his seat, his smile uneasy. “I sense a but?”

“You're not wrong,” said Muirden, as he stopped leafing through the manuscript. “We feel that the novel is good and fresh, which is very good.” He pushed his glasses up with his index finger, and squinted through them out of screwed up eyes. “But the text as it stands is too colloquial... There are too many swear words...”

“My main character is a working class adolescent,” Merlin said, scratching at the side of his jaw. “With his background he isn't about to sound Dickensian.”

“I do understand that, Mr Emrys,” Muirden said. “But our audience, we feel, won't be ready for that.”

“I'm not sure I agree with that,” Merlin said, leaning forward. “I don't think your perception of your readership is quite...” Merlin looked to Arthur. “Flattering...”

“It's not meant to be.” Muirden leant back against his seat, crossed his legs and tapped his fingers on the table. “We are a business after all and as such we always consider the worst case scenario when it comes to our readership's intelligence.”

“I see,” Merlin said, compressing his lips.

“But if you were to agree to some editorial tweaking,” Muirden said, waving his hand about, “and if you, let's say, shifted the point of view away from your main character and assigned it to someone who's easier to sympathise with--” The movements of Muirden's hand continued to accompany his words. “-- then I feel we could come to a compromise.”

“No.” Merlin stood up. “This story... I'm sure it's not perfect, and I'd come here meaning to agree to submit it to some manner of editorial process. But you're not asking me that, Mr Muirden, are you? You're asking me to change it to something that it's not, something I don't want my novel to be.”

Mr Muirden tilted his head back. “Please, sit down, Mr Emrys,” he said. “I'm sure this misunderstanding can be solved once you understand the fiction market a bit better. People buy works of fiction for two reasons: because they're by a household name or because they find the narrative uplifting, pleasant. You fall in neither category. You can see why we're warmly advising changes.”

“And I suppose you can see why I'm not allowing them,” Merlin said. “The point of my book... the gist of my tale...”

“Is an-anti establishment quagmire that no one will like,” Muirden said in a raised voice. “Not the average reader certainly.”

Merlin dipped his head. “I think these are no grounds to build a working partnership on. You're ignoring my point completely.”

“Mr Emrys, you're not being prudent.” He gestured for Merlin to sit down. “Edit your novel, get it in print. If it's successful and once you're more established, we might talk about publishing a short story that's truer to the spirit of your original work. For now...”

“You're taking me for a fool, aren't you?” Merlin asked, his shoulders down, his tone brooking no nonsense. “I'd rather keep my integrity than do what you're suggesting.”

“And that,” Muirden said, taking his glasses off and depositing them on the table, “is why your lot never goes far in life.”

“My lot?” Merlin said, spluttering, clearly nonplussed. “What do you mean by that?”

“You know perfectly well what I mean, Mr Emrys,” Muirden said. “Lower class.”

Merlin turned on his heels and left.

Before catching up with him, Arthur told Muirden, “You've no idea how much talent you've passed on.”

Later, in the lobby, Merlin said, “You don't think me an idiot, do you?”

“No,” Arthur said, once more refraining from touching Merlin, lest the floodgates open and he do more than would be allowed. He considered the crowd, the passing businessmen with their shiny briefcases, and the ladies waltzing off towards the exit, their heads high, leaving behind a trail of expensive perfume, and knew he could get away with nothing. With a crushing bitterness that weighed heavy on his body, he realised that what he really wanted to do – take Merlin in his arms and inhale the stark scent of him, kiss him clean of it – couldn't be done. “I'm proud of what you did.”

Merlin's lips tentatively curved. In spite of the crushing disappointment he must be trying to negotiate and that was evident in his shiny eyes, his smile was honest and sincere, warming Arthur's heart by virtue of simply being there.

 

*****

 

Merlin stood on the diving board situated at the deep end of the pool. His arms stood out, trickles of water dripped from his hair and small rivulets of it ran over his body, beading it like new dew. His wet swimsuit clung to him as did the dark hairs on his legs. He breathed, his chest going concave, and took a couple of steps. Arthur watched him bounce off the board and tuck his body into a front flip.

As he unfolded, he straightened his legs and extended his arms over his head. There was a purity to his body in motion that squeezed Arthur's heart and made him want to look and look, never take his eyes off. He wondered how people hadn't noticed Arthur's fascination with Merlin's staggering beauty. 

He had a crowd around him, bathers queuing for the diving board, one pressed to the other, people stretched lazily on sun beds, reading novels or doing crossword puzzles, tapping their pens against pages riffled by the wind. Children were chasing each other along the edge of the pool, a dog yapping at the one streaking past its muzzle. Yet none seemed to be even remotely conscious of Arthur's internal upheaval. Had he become that good at hiding it? Were they unable to see it because they were rooted in their own beliefs?

When he resurfaced, Merlin streamlined and then began his front crawl towards the side of the pool Arthur was on. The moment Merlin touched the wall, leaning both elbows on slippery concrete, the midday haze blurring its surface into grey luminescence, Arthur pushed off his deck chair.

Smiling down at Merlin, he hunkered down. “Worked it out of your system?”

Merlin raked a hand through his wet hair, squeezed his eyes, and looked away. “Not sure.”

“Try a few more laps then,” Arthur suggested, lifting his eyes to the pool lane behind Merlin. It was getting colder these days, a fizzy bite to the air that hadn't been there before during high summer, but if Merlin needed the exertion, so be it.

“Yeah,” Merlin said, diving under and resurfacing further off the wall. “Arthur... since I have no more reason to stay here, I was thinking about going back to Delphi and picking up my work there.” His gaze pooled on Arthur, spearing him through. “I don't know if you want to stay here or not... see Athens, or...”

“I'll come with you,” Arthur said, pushing up off his hand and onto his feet. 

Merlin nodded, dove and turned around under water, going for another lap. 

Merlin was still a little wet when they got back to his flat. His hair was very much so, lying flat on his head without curling at the tips as it usually did, and the collar of his shirt was damp where it touched his skin. Once inside, he scratched at his neck, running a finger along his collar, and lobbed his key at the bowl. “I'm having a bath, if you don't mind, I taste like chlorine.”

“Say rather that you're trying to chase some warmth back into your body,” Arthur said with some manner of tutting.

Merlin's face twitched into a half-smile. “Perhaps, or perhaps it's an invitation for you to join me.”

“I, um,” Arthur said, brushing his hand down his neck. “I was thinking of doing some reading first.”

Merlin made a noise with his tongue and his head snapped down. “Sure, of course. Help yourself to my books.” He aimed a thumb over his shoulder. “I'll be nipping into the bathroom then.”

“Yes.” Arthur shifted from side to side. “You do need a warm soak.”

Once Merlin had padded into the other room, Arthur sat at the desk. He found pen and paper in the drawer. He tapped the pen against the edge of the desk, looked to the doorway that gave to the bedroom, saw it as empty as it had been but a second before, and started writing.

 

_Dear Mithian,_

_I'm writing to you from Athens, which I will leave in a few days. The opportunity that seemed to have opened up for Merlin and brought him here didn't pan out so we are going back to Delphi. While I'm using this message to forward my new address to you, (it happens to be my old one), I'm also writing to ask a favour. I know this may sound abrupt and impolite. Ordinarily I wouldn't act this way, but I really don't know how else to deal with this, with the thought that perhaps I could do something to help Merlin, so here I am, writing._

_I realise that I'm not making much sense, which is why I'll explain in full._

_Merlin came to Athens to meet up with a publisher. He has written a marvellous novel about loneliness and the quest for self. I'm not good with words when it comes to literature, so this probably means I'm not doing justice to Merlin's talent, but I assure you, Merlin's words speak for themselves._

_In this spirit, I'm going to let Merlin make his own case by including a copy of the novel._

Arthur looked at the typescript. He had seen another working copy in the drawer.

All I ask is that you show it to Andy Morholt. While I hope he'll pick it up for publication, I'm not pushing either of you to get that done. I'm just begging him to get a look at it. I'm sure he'll love it as much as I do and as much as I think you will. I will understand, of course, if he turns it down, just, please, be so kind as to pass it on.

Thank you just for considering doing this for me. I want this to happen for Merlin so badly, it's as if we were talking about my own hopes for the future.

Thank you again,

Arthur

PS: I'm glad you and Gwaine have spoken, whatever the consequences of that meeting I hope it brings happiness to the both of you, be it together or apart. 

 

Arthur put the letter in an envelope and the envelope in the pocket of the jacket that hung from the coat-rail. This done, he went into the bedroom. He kicked his shoes off and lay back on top of the bed, without disturbing the covers, feeling the pillows mould themselves to his shape. In a fluster of linens, he rolled his shoulders against them.

With a towel wrapped around his hips and suspended in precarious balance, Merlin padded back into the room. His chest was flushed to pinkness by the warmth of the bath; his eyes made bright and somewhat heavy by it, his eyelids puffy and droopy.

Without losing his towel, Merlin stretched out on the bed next to him. Arthur turned on his side and put a hand on Merlin's shoulder, feeling the heat of the bath water on his skin, his fingers rubbing the smoothness of him, outlining the curved brim of bone underneath. With a snuffle, Merlin curled up closer to him, breathing with his mouth open and to the pace of his heartbeat. 

Combing his fringe off Merlin's forehead, Arthur leant closer to him, his own breaths slowly pushed out just as Merlin's were. His heart in his throat, he brushed his lips against Merlin's forehead, rubbed his chin against it. Then moved his mouth across his face in fanciful meanderings. At the desultory, unpredictable caress, Merlin made a deep low sound that curled around Arthur's insides. 

Body warm with the feelings playing under his skin, Arthur touched his tongue to Merlin's bottom lip, tasted it, chasing the yield and suppleness of it, then pushed deeper in, tasting the wetness of Merlin's mouth, until they were kissing deeply. It only gentled slowly, Arthur drawing his lips over Merlin's again and again, until they smarted, and his touches dwindled to nothing. The rise and fall of Merlin's chest easing, Arthur whispered softly against his skin. “Sleep,” he said, though his hands ached for touch, “you're done for.”

“Actually, I--” Merlin said, eyes red rimmed and a little blood shot with both chlorine and drowsiness. “I want to...”

“Sleep,” Arthur said, again, “you're shot.”

Merlin overbalanced into a kiss that caught Arthur on the chin. He rubbed his face against the side of Arthur's and then against the curved curve of the pillow, his hair whispering against its case. “Maybe you're right.”

“Yes, I am,” Arthur said, pulling a blanket on top of Merlin and placing his head on the same pillow as him so they were sharing breath, and a warm space to burrow under. “I am. Now stop thinking.”

By and by Merlin fell asleep. From time to time a little pained noise escaped him, but the pulse Arthur could feel at his neck was full, and strong, regular with a steadiness that soothed Arthur into drowsiness.

 

*****

 

Delphi in early October was completely different from Delphi in high summer. While Arthur had been gone, subsumed by the constant rhythm of the city, the landscape had changed. Sun drenched nature that was drowned in the warm browns of baked earth had given way to vistas clothed in rich greens, oranges, and duller greys; the soil, turned-under and watered by the new rains bloomed to life with pulses of red and deep yellow, as if to parade its beauties before nature would succumb to the whites of frost, the charcoals of winter. The grass, no longer dry and burnished ochre, swayed in the wind, up slopes and down valleys that would meander out to the dark autumnal blue of a sea restless with new gales. Bright skies lit up pink from behind clouds had turned to weightier palls of cobalt, streamed with clouds that were edged with thunder.

The human landscape had morphed too. Crowds had decreased. People were no longer jostling each other along narrow streets, competing for space. But they had no means disappeared. Tourists still were a presence, though not as substantial a one as before, distinguishable by their cameras and unseasonal straw hats and sandals. 

At Merlin's flat they parted. “I'd love to,” Arthur said. “But you know I can't.”

“Yes,” Merlin told him, crossing gazes before looking back at his building. “I understand.”

“It's not Athens,” Arthur pointed out, his fingers working around the handle of his suitcase. “We'd stand out.”

“It's not a crime here in Greece,” Merlin said, in such a soft voice his words were nearly stolen by the evening breeze. “Not since last year. Part of the reason I moved.”

“That doesn't mean it wouldn't have consequences,” Arthur found himself forced to say, in spite of the pressure around his throat that made speaking such a hard task. “You know that.” Arthur couldn't help but think of the consequences actually. They crowded his imaginings like crows gathering around a corpse. “Don't you?”

“Yes.” Merlin inched towards him then stepped back. “Does this mean... That, I don't know, you'd rather not see me?”

Arthur made a sound, one that came from deep in his chest. “No, that doesn't mean that. If you think that...” Arthur drew his lower lip into his mouth and sunk a tooth into the skin. “You don't know how I feel.”

Merlin wrenched his head up. “Really?”

“Truly.”

“I got scared,” Merlin said, talking to the pavement mostly. “I've never done this before. Not like this. And I get scared because of how much--” He lowered his voice. “You make me feel. So much so that going back to how I was before…” He smiles thinly. “I don't want that. It's so bleak.”

Arthur let his mouth fall open. “Surely...”

“It's complicated,” Merlin said, before brushing his words aside with a wave of his hand. “Let's just think about the here and now.”

“I can do that,” Arthur said, with a careful nod. “I want to do that.”

“Then come with me to the party Lancelot is giving,” Merlin said, his eyes alight with hope. “There will be dancing and good food. And we can...”

A passer-by sped past them. Both Arthur and Merlin dipped their heads. Once the person had gone, his shadow merging with the darkness of night, Merlin spoke again. “Spend some time together.”

“I'll be there.”

Lanterns hung from streamers that shook in the breeze above the courtyard; shedding a soft golden light over its centre and over the walls of the buildings surrounding it. A few smaller ones were hidden in tree branches, illuminating their narrow leaves. They dangled from eaves and street lamps, from posts and balconies, lighting up the gravel road that sloped into the courtyard. These lanterns came in all shapes and sizes. Some looked like animals and houses, while others were simpler geometrical shapes painted colourfully in reds and blues and yellows. 

Candles burned in sconces on the tables, piles of wax forming either side of them, and torches burned in the walls. 

A row of linked tables had been pushed against the sides of the outer taverna walls, and people were milling from one to the next. Those who weren't eating were dancing to the music that a duo of folk musicians was playing from a corner.

Lancelot was dancing with a tall woman Arthur took to be his wife. When he saw Merlin, he came bounding over. “Merlin,” he said, clapping him on the back, making Merlin's answering laugh sound staccato and cavernous. “I'm so glad you've come.” He moved over to Arthur, one of his hand on Arthur's arm, the other grabbing his for a firm shake. “And you too. So happy to see you've... prolonged your holiday.”

“I'm happy to be here too,” he said, meeting Lancelot's eyes.

“But come now,” Lancelot said, “you should have something to eat and then dance. You won't be able to do that in the open once winter comes.”

Merlin nodded and trailed after Lancelot, wearing a smile. Arthur followed after a beat. At the refreshments table Merlin ate fish off a skewer; Arthur dipped bread in a soft sauce that tasted like garlic and herbs and let the savours unfold on his tongue. When he wasn't chewing, Merlin smiled at him, his cheeks drifting upwards under the push of his smile.

Merlin danced with Eleni, Lancelot's wife, leading her across the courtyard in a rhythm that wasn't that of the music, but something both clumsy and visceral. 

Following his example, Arthur twirled around with a local girl, brown haired, soft eyed. She had no English and he no Greek, but they understood each other: when to turn, when to speed up, when to slow down. When the dance was done, Arthur escorted her back to her table and kissed her hand. She said something he did not get, but when she understood he'd failed to grasp her meaning she just inclined her head. 

He got it then. Said, “No, thank you.” 

Music flooding his ears, he sauntered back to the refreshment table, leaning against it, both hands gripping the edges. He didn't eat, but watched Merlin dance, the moon shining on the paved courtyard, washing everybody in its pale glow. The ground gently shook with footfalls. 

Evidently taken by the dance, Merlin invited most of the young women who'd come to the feast to take a turn with him. He even danced a foxtrot with an old grandmother who refused him twice before Merlin could persuade her with words and smiles. By the time the moon was halfway up the sky, Merlin's brow was coated in sweat, he had lost his jacket in favour of shirtsleeves, and had acquired a deep flush. 

Arthur pictured himself going to him, taking Merlin for a spin around the courtyard, the night air whipping at their clothes, the music reverberating around the little plaza as it was doing now, but faster, more pervasive, echoing the needs of his heart. Even while he imagined it, he knew that wouldn't happen. The joy of thoughtless pleasure was for others, not for him. The privilege of acting on instinct wasn't going to be his. Had never really been. He did wonder why that was so, why some were deserving of artlessness while a few were precluded from it. He questioned justice, he questioned the practice of it, the morality that would allow these laws to be laid down. But he wasn't in the habit of doing so, knew that the thought would gall him needlessly, and didn't want to go down that path and make himself a passive recipient of censure, of condemnation. 

He participated in the moment in the only way he could, standing by the sidelines, drinking in the scene so that he would remember it as it was. Chatter lapped at his ears like a tide, the bouzokis not quite drowning it altogether with their deep notes, with the echo of their music. Bodies swirled before him, moving at different speeds and with varying degrees of ability, but jiggling on and on to the tempo the songs evoked.

When the moon started to wane and the candles to burn out on the tables, Lancelots's guests started home. Merlin and Arthur were among the first to steal away.

They walked the silent streets, the market stalls closed, boarded up, with their awnings rolled up and their wares absent. Their footfalls clopped and dragged along the paved street, echoing in their wake, fading at their heels in the hush of the hour. The soft night sky enveloped them, cradled them in its darkness. 

Expectation thrilled at Arthur's core; powered the blood through his veins, set it onto a faster course. With Merlin at his side, in the quiet of the hour, he thought the world would concede to their intimacy in some kind of secret pact.

Drunk on this notion, he came to a halt, grabbed Merlin's hand and slammed him against the rough-hewn stone wall of a house that leant on another such one. A street lamp bathed Merlin's face in its honeyed glow, lending it beautiful smudge-like shadows like mysteries on canvas. A breath burst forth from Arthur. He locked eyes with Merlin and found he didn't have the will or the emotional strength to pull back right now, to act as though he wasn't moved by him. Being apart from him, silent, other as far as Merlin was concerned, a spectator in the play of his own want, was not what he wished to be. 

Out of soft eyes full of understanding, Merlin stared back. He reached from him with fingers warm like his pulse, wrapping his palm around Arthur's neck, above his collar, and dragging him forwards for a kiss. His lips were sweet and lush, his mouth tasted of wine and sugary concoctions that had a spice to them, a unique combination Arthur would never forget. 

Arthur kissed him back with yearning desperation, chasing the thought of Merlin by parting his lips, his tongue flicking in slow motions against Merlin's. 

Taking Arthur's actions as a cue to deepen the kiss, Merlin turned their exchange into a completely heart-rending motion of the body. With every single puff of breath he pushed into Arthur's mouth, seduced him. With every single brush of his lips and tongue, he took Arthur's heart away from him. 

Arthur forgot that they were in public, not in Athens among a multitude, and not on a lost beach comprised by crags, a triangle of shingle and sand washed smaller by the surf, a hard location to approach. He melted instead at the push of Merlin's tongue in his mouth, caved to his desire for this love. 

He kissed Merlin with tears in his eyes because he had lost his brain and his soul to the beauty between them.

Spearing his retinas, headlights blinded Arthur and made him jump back and away from Merlin, panic tearing at his lungs and his brain even before he saw the shape of a blue Morgan and well before he could distinguish the face of Henry Sagramore at the wheel.

An acidic taste flooded his mouth, his guts free-fell, and tension spread to his jaw and legs before they hollowed out on him, relinquishing their support. The swirl of emotions that came loose inside him, drained the blood from his brain.

Arthur staggered. He said, “I've got to go.”

 

***** 

 

The mirrors reflected the light of the chandeliers, like star-bursts turning their light to a gold wash, their bronze wooden frames mimicking the shine of finer materials. The lights themselves had a soft halo around them, waning at the edges of shimmering globes, casting their luminescence upon the intricate crystal droplets belonging to the fixture above.

As Arthur walked to the Maître d' of The Palace, the carpet absorbed his footfall. “I reserved a table at reception,” he said.

The Maître d' rubbed the end of his pen against his forehead, then tapped it on the open page of his reservations book. “I do see that a request has been made from reception, sir.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow. “And?”

“Unfortunately,” the maître d' said, drawing himself up, “all tables had already been reserved prior to you talking to the reception clerks.”

Arthur looked behind the man and through the glass paned doors. The dining room floor was mostly empty; four or five tables were occupied but the others weren't, tablecloths pristine, glassware unstained, silverware catching the light. “It doesn't look to me as though that's a correct evaluation of the state of things.”

The maître d' looked over his shoulders. The obvious must have struck him too, for he hesitated before starting again, “Well, yes, indeed, it might look like that now, sir. But we have guests slotted for later in the evening. They too have a reservation, a prior one.”

Arthur's lips thinned. “Can't I have a quick bite before those guests come?”

The maître d's eyes rounded, he coughed into his fist, then said, “I suppose... If you're quick... In that case.”

“Very well, then,” Arthur said, pulling at his jacket so that it'd sit better on his shoulders. “Have one of the waiters escort me to my table.”

The crow-like figure of a waiter appeared at the maître d' summons. Arthur tailed him into the hotel restaurant, a rip-tide of murmurs rising at his passing, and stood stiffly while the server pulled the chair back for him to sit. 

Arthur ordered a bottle of wine, white. The waiter returned with an oblong bottle that was dusty at the neck and a long-stemmed glass. “Are you ready to order, sir?”

As murmurs rose to a cacophony, Arthur spread his napkin on his knees. “Yes, indeed. I'll have the sea-bass.”

“May I get you any side dishes, sir?” the waiter asked him, without taking notes.

“Potatoes will do,” Arthur said. 

“Yes, sir.”

The waiter made to go. 

Whispers of disapproval went round the dining floor, at first in threads like silk, soft voices that were quick but hurried and had no depth to them, like the call of the wind on a summer's night. Then they became louder, a buzz of gossip that came with accompanying noises, the creak of chairs, the tapping of polished cigarettes cases, lighters and pocket mirrors, against the edges of sundry tables.

“On second thoughts,” Arthur said, “I'll have a plate of steamed vegetables as well.”

“Yes, sir.”

His knife, cut into the flesh of the fish in vertical stripes that went from the tail end upwards, slicing towards the head. He kept his knife slightly angled towards the plate, scraping against its enamel, cutting down, passing the blade along the backbone so as to cut it free from the white pulp of the fish.

As if he were not present, the other hotel guests chattered and gossiped. It was clear it was about him when one of the Miss Outwaithes said, “It's outrageous. In my days this wouldn't have happened at all. What are these Greeks thinking, allowing such company in.” 

“Indeed my dear, indeed,” her cousin answered. “You're too right. But the world has gone to the dogs.”

Arthur dipped the fish in the sauce and though everything tasted like dust he made himself chew his morsel till it was mush on his tongue. Then he continued on to the next bite.

From a table opposite Sagramore lifted his glass to the Miss Outwaithes. Vivian put her hand on his wrist and lowered it. “Harry, no.” But talk continued, steady as the crash of a waterfall, heightened in Arthur's ears by trails of those words he did make out. They resounded in Arthur's head long after they'd been last pronounced, stark in their isolation, virulent in the clash of harsh, hushed sibilants.

There was a playground quality to the murmurings that took Arthur back to a sunlit class at the end of a long past summer, a few fellows gathered close in a company of like-minded individuals, secret keepers, to the rush of words, words that erased his smile and sunk like heavy weights in his consciousness, a gritty, instinctual tussle of sounds that changed simple noise into outraged mockery. To this day Arthur remembered every expression of condemnation, every eyebrow raised in doubt or censure. He remembered the overheard comments and arguments, the nods of approbation bestowed in the belief there could be no truth to the rumours. He did it with such distaste that his body still locked as though in preparation for a blow and his sweat still cooled his frame to an unpleasant degree.

With the ball of his index finger pressed against the knife, he cut his dinner in equal parts, and ate slowly, methodically. Though his head was down he couldn't be unaware of Sagramore's gaze transfixing him or of the trajectory of the other patrons', cast down, or turned to their companions, anywhere but at him.

He sliced the last bites of the fish, peeling away the slimy grey skin to reveal the juicy flesh underneath. After cutting two strips, he dipped them in sauce. He speared a potato. Chewed. And then on again till he came to the last aubergine and the last cucumber.

With deliberation he drank a small sip of wine, letting it bubble against his tongue, dabbed his at his mouth with his napkin, and left, leaving a large tip.

His pace measured, his head high, he walked out of the restaurant. Clear of it, he strode past the lobby and into one of the phone booths available to the guests. He lifted the heavy receiver and dialled Merlin's number.

He answered at the third ring.

Arthur told him, “I can't do this anymore.”

 

***** 

 

Three mahogany desks stood on a dais reachable by a set of three wooden steps. They occupied one side of the floor and there was a distance of some forty inches between each. Three different clocks hung behind each desk, one pointing to the hour in Athens, one to the time in New York, and one to the time zone in Beijing.

Sat on a bench opposite, Arthur leafed through a glossy magazine featuring pictures of sunny beaches, verdant countryside, and sweeping peaks covered in blueish snow. Flight attendants posed while wearing their uniforms; sunny polite smiles showed off their rows of pearly whites.

"Next," the lady sitting at the desk closest to him called out when her customer left.

Arthur dropped his magazine and walked over to her position, sinking into the chair just vacated by an elderly gentleman and still warm with his body heat.

The clerk smiled and said something in Greek.

"I'm afraid I didn't understand that, madam," Arthur said, cringing apologetically. 

"That won't be a problem, sir," the clerk said. "Here at Icarus we always do our best to meet our customer's requests. Besides, we get a lot of Englishmen here. We're used to it."

"Well, that's... thank you, " Arthur said, pleased he was at the receiving end of some kindness. It went a long way. He coughed into his fist. "Thanks."

"So what can I do for you, sir?"

"Book me a flight out of Athens," Arthur rushed out, the weight that was compressing his chest lifting. "The destination doesn't really matter as long as it's not the UK. Not yet."

The clerk raised an eyebrow. "Couldn't you be a little more specific, sir? Just to narrow down my search."

Arthur looked at the map hanging just below the row of clocks, at that colourful delineation of world wide politics. "Turkey will do."

"The Bosporus is very scenic this time of year," the clerk told him, lifting her phone. "I'll just check availability with a few airlines."

As the clerk spoke on the phone, Arthur bowed his head, tapping his foot listlessly on the floor. He tried to summon a mental image of the places he would visit, but although he knew how they looked like, at least theoretically, his mind came up blank. He supposed that didn't matter. That one place would be like the next and that sightseeing wasn't really the point. He would have to write to Mithian to give her his new address and explain the change in his plan. He wasn't sure what he would say would make much sense, to her or to him. But he would have to say something.

"There is nothing this week," the clerk told him. "Would you be fine with a later departure, next week for example?"

“That will do,” Arthur said, lips as tight as his jaw.

“I'll speak with Athens then,” said the clerk with a jolly smile. “If you'll be so kind as to wait.” She lifted the receiver the receiver of a second phone and put down the first.

“Of course.”

“Just a little patience,” she mimed, tapping a finger at the base of her phone. It was as red as her varnish, perhaps a notch darker.

When there was some sort of answer of the other end of the line the clerk started volleying words in Greek. She hummed, tapped her nail against the receiver, then spoke again, this time more slowly. There was a rapid exchange, then the clerk cupped the lower end of the phone and addressed Arthur. “I've got a flight departing for Ankara in eight days. Would that be all right with you? It comes at a good price. Leaves from Athens.”

Though Arthur wanted to be gone as quickly as possible, he realised it would be better for him if he took his time. He didn't have much in the way of baggage, not much more than he'd come with, but there was the move to Athens to consider. “Next week will do fine.”

The woman, Arthur gathered, repeated what Arthur had said, only in Greek. “Will you be paying by travellers cheque or bank cheque?”

Arthur took out his pen. “Bank cheque,” he said, fishing his chequebook out of his other pocket.

“Just give me a moment, sir, and I'll confirm your booking.”

Arthur compiled cheque, tore it off, and handed it to the clerk. “Let me know when I should pick up the tickets.”

Later in his room, Arthur lay himself down on the bed. He did so dressed as he was. He put his arm under his head and stared at the ceiling. He recognised shapes in the shadows that played there, hares and horses, the form of countries, the tail leg of Austria, Scotland's pronged head, as well as other forms, beaks and wings and claws. 

Discomfort made him fuss. His neck ached and his muscles corded, so he rolled his head in the cradle of his arm. His jacket pulled at his flanks and at his elbows. He shook that off, smoothing it out on the other side of the bed, the empty one, and sat back up, fluffing a pillow. He tried reclining again, crossing his ankles, feet on the bed, shoes on. He would have been starkly reprimanded for something like this as a child, by his nanny if not directly by Uther. He guessed it was all a matter of perspective. What seemed like a great sin as a child, an action to be punished for, became nothing but a little venial faux pas once you were an adult.

Real mistakes were others: disappointing people, betraying people, betraying oneself.

He should have smiled with the wisdom of experience, but couldn't quite. Arms crossed, hands under his armpits, he shuffled in bed, squirrelling down. As he strove for a congenial position, he made little noises buried deep in his throat, but he found that no angle quite satisfied him. 

With a sigh he pushed off the bed and walked to the desk. On its surface lay a packet of cigarettes he had brought from a tobacconist whose shop was dark and dank, smelling like mildew, and that he had selected on a whim. He'd felt distaste at his surroundings, at the wonky stack of shelves that rose in the darkness, at the stale air, at the grotto like shape of the place. These characteristics had prickled his skin, but there was something so old-world about the place, something so comfortingly stolid he had had to try. And here he was now with the pack in his hands, shiny and square.

He tore at it, pulled a cigarette out and lit it with unsteady fingers. From down the length of his nose, he watched them tremble, saw the red flare at the end of the cigarette, like a pinprick of fire. When he had himself steadied, he caught a flake of tobacco on his tongue, tasted it, harsh and bitter on his tongue. His first drag on the cigarette made him cough, prickling at his throat and lungs. The nicotine went straight to his head and left him dizzy. After a few inhales though, he became numb to its effects. 

Again Arthur cleared his throat, and took another pull, attempting to get used to the taste of the smoke. It hung like a pallid, ghostly rag in the air, billowing upwards. 

Blowing out puffs with his lips, he walked to the window and leant against the sill. He opened the the shutter to his left then the other, fumbled with the catch on the window. The catch gave, and the window slipped open. Cool air touched his face, tasting like the season, like the sea, like the country he was about to leave. Outside nothing was visible but a slab of pale dark and the moon, which was low across the surface of the sky.

He heard the sounds of voices coming from the ground floor, from round the building, where the courtyard was. The echoed trill of laughter reached him with tremendous vibrancy. He could even distinguish some of the words words. “Let's go to dinner, Harry.” The voice was that of Vivian Sagramore. 

“Don't be a fool Vivian,” her husband answered.

“I'm not being a fool,” Vivian said, her tones still high enough to pierce the night.

“Can't you see that I'm talking to old Taggart here.”

“Yes, well, I was operating under the impression you would want to dine.”

“What do you mean?” 

“The restaurant will be closing soon,” said Vivian. 

“They'll hold up for us.”

“The waiters would have to prolong their shifts.”

“So now we're caring about overworking the help!”

“No,” Vivian said, lower, weariness ringing in her voice. “We're not caring about much these days, are we?” 

“Well, I guess we could join the others in the dining room,” Sagramore said, capitulating, likely following his wife inside since the sound of his voice dwindled to nothing.

Show over, Arthur closed the window and walked back by his place to the desk. He crushed the cigarette in the ashtray and picked up an apple from the complimentary tray. He bit into it, its juices flooding his mouth with their tart sweetness.

 

****

 

The next day Arthur went downstairs. Thinking he would bring up his stomach any second, he fought to keep the nausea down. He breathed in and out, his chest like a harmonica, and let himself grow dizzy with the influx of oxygen before stepping out of the lift. As he made for the lobby, he set his shoulders wide.

Despite the storm that lashed on outside, it was hot and close inside. The lobby curtains, heavy yellow ones that had the plushness of suede and that were drawn across the closed French Windows didn't let in any sign of nature's upheaval. The fire in the rustic fireplace in the corner crackled with animation, long flickers of red hot flame reaching upward as if to permeate through the bricks of the chimney. Sap pockets ignited and popped.

One of the Miss Outwaithes was reading to the other from the depth of a cushioned wing back chair, a leather bound tome perched on her knees; the other was knitting, nodding her head slowly to the recitation. They acted as though they hadn't seen him. The voice of one of the cousins trapped in a monotonous droning on, the eyes of the other focused on her relative.

At the bar Vivian Sagramore was sipping a cocktail, swirling the ice with swift motions of her wrist. She was dressed for an outing in a flaring olive green dress cinched at the waist by a red vinyl belt. A parasol matching the dress was propped against the bar, tipped at the same angle as her embroidered felt cloche.

Without upsetting the hat, she pulled her hair back behind her ear and sighed.

Arthur went to her, pulling back the leather stool next to hers. “May I?”

Mrs Sagramore's head snapped up. When she saw him, her eyes widened and her nostrils flared. But then she resettled in her seat, played with the lock of hair behind her ear and smiled. “Of course, you can, Mr Pendragon.”

“I see you were thwarted in your attempt to go out.”

Vivian Sagramore's gaze fell on the parasol. “Oh, that, yes. The weather is so nasty today. I think we'll have to leave Greece soon.”

The barman turned to Arthur. Arthur mimed the words, “A soda, please.”

“Returning to the States?” Arthur asked, taking a seat across from Mrs Sagramore.

“Maybe,” Vivian Sagramore said, her voice a quiet whisper. “It's all up to Harry. He decides these things.” She looked behind her as though her husband was likely to pop up any second now. “If he strikes up a friendship, he will trail the fellow everywhere, making us hop around Europe on a whim.” She made a tiny moue of distaste, her soft lip curling. “And he'll drop those friends just as easily.” She pushed out a sigh that rounded her shoulders in a slump. “Marriage isn't easy, Mr Pendragon. It's an art.” 

Arthur had no idea why Mrs Sagramore had opened up about that, but she had, so he said in return, “I know. Been through that. Clearly, I didn't have that art down pat.”

“Oh,” Vivian said, her mouth rounding in surprise, the rouge of her make up flaking. “I apologise. I just thought... that... That you mustn't be married...”

“I'm getting divorced,” Arthur said, with a flick of his shoulder. “So you weren't wrong about me.”

“I'm sorry that didn't work out for you,” she said, slowly, attentive, with a gentleness to her voice he wouldn't have previously ascribed to her. “Isn't it better... in your case... Not the divorce itself, but I'm sure you do understand what I mean.”

“I've come to terms with the fact that it was the best course of action, both for my wife and me,” Arthur acknowledged, frowning as he tried to make her understand. “I wish it could have come easier, but these things never do.”

“No.” She sniffed. “Love doesn't come easy.”

“I suppose it doesn't,” he said. 

“One should never fall in love,” Vivian said, sitting up with her back very straight, her eyes animated. “I'd strongly advise people not to fall into it at all.”

Arthur grabbed his soda from the waiter, drank a sip. “I've often wondered whether that was possible,” Arthur said, blowing out his cheeks on an exhale. “Whether I could keep my heart in check. I didn't succeed,” he said, with a touch of melancholy, a web in his throat that made both drinking and talking hard. “Not at all.” Before his memories could cripple him, he reverted to the subject at hand. “Neither do I think you ever could.”

“And what should I do instead?” she asked, arching her eyebrow severely as though she meant to challenge him.

“Frankly, I don't know.” He had no idea how to fix his life let alone that of others. He wanted to badly, but wasn't equipped to. “But I can propose a light pastime that will relax you enough to make the decision possible.”

“And what would this pastime be?”

“How about we play a game of chess?”

“I'll take you up on the offer, Mr Pendragon,” said Mrs Sagramore, throwing her head back, picking up her cocktail glass and walking with him towards the library next to the lobby, the Miss Outwaithes following their every move, their gazes burning Arthur's neck.

Using her useless parasol as a cane, Mrs Sagramore swayed into the library.

The chess set had been placed on a low table. Light glazed the pieces, making the white ones shine and the black ones appear glossy.

“Shall we?” Mrs Sagramore said, daintily sitting sideways on the edge of a low chaise that faced the table, her parasol propped against it at her feet. “I'm quite eager to find out who's the best player.”

“But of course,” Arthur said, sinking in the armchair opposite Mrs Sagramore's, the table between them.

To start the game Arthur moved his pawn to Queen Four.

“Ah, conservative opening,” Mrs Sagramore observed, humming softly between her lips. 

Arthur had to concede, opening as he had was a sound strategic idea, advancing one's position on the board while protecting one's queen. A king-side opening would have had much more flare. But as it was he was trying to force Mrs Sagramore on the defensive, which was, he thought, not too bad a plan either.

Mrs Sagramore however didn't bite on. She declined his gambit by moving her black rook in D4. 

“I see what you're doing,” Arthur said. 

Vivian Sagramore was a passionate chess player. She didn't concede much to strategy, but she played simply by dint of daring, cornering him by taking reckless intuitive leaps that often enough took him off guard. Arthur had more of a grasp of tactics, his playing reasoned and perhaps a lot less courageous. When he got in a good move, it was by way of thought and perseverance. When she did, it was more of a stroke of genius.

The morning wore on as the match continued, the rain outside dwindling to a few spatters that whispered against the glass pains but didn't altogether cease. Overall, Arthur kept to trusty tactics; he reacted to Mrs Sagramore's moves while anticipating any traps ahead. Even though he proceeded this cautiously, he was often unable to tell exactly in which sequence she would unleash her attacks.

Faltering for the first time, he moved his pawn at Bishop Two ahead one square, laying siege at Mrs Sagramore's bishop. 

“You want me to give up, don't you? To retreat,” said Mrs Sagramore. “Well, I'll have you know that's not something I ever do.” She looked up from under a raised eyebrow and added, “I don't think you should ever give up what you want.”

Arthur's hand shook as his fingers curled around his pawn. “I'm not usually prone to giving up.” 

“No?”

“Notice how I'm threatening your bishop,” he said, “with my humble queen's pawns.”

“Well,” said Mrs Sagramore, her pupils little slices of black. “Are you sure you are?”

Arthur had moved the pawn to King Three. Now this was a solid move, his white pieces arrayed to attack the black one. It was a simple line of play, but it generally worked because of its very linearity. “Yes.”

"If you say so," said Mrs Sagramore, her tone pointed. "You think you're costing me a turn and losing me my central position.” She placed her manicured finger on top of the pawn, red against black. “But I don't know how good it'll do you.” She scratched her nail against the pawn's lacquer. “Playing by the rules doesn't always get you much.”

Arthur expelled air through his nose with a sharpness he hadn't expected. His heart climbed to his throat. “I--”

“Yes, you do,” she said, recapturing the pawn with the knight, thus regaining command of the central portion of the board and strengthening it when it looked like the opposite would happen. “But playing it safe, the way they've taught you how, benefits no one in the long run.”

“You think?”

“I think.”

Only a few scattered pieces were left on the board, when in a sudden ruckus of moves Mrs Sagramore checkmated him. 

“You made your point,” Arthur said, body stiff, heartbeat still loud in his ears.

“I think I have.”

Trying to ease a smile onto his face, Arthur asked, “Another game?” 

“I think not,” Mrs Sagramore said, recomposing the check board, moving the pieces back to their pre-established positions, ready for a fresh game. She rose. “But thank you for the company, Mr Pendragon.” She made for the door but then stopped a lot short of it. “I hope you don't take what I said too much to heart. Sometimes gloomy feelings take one over and one just says foolish things.”

“I didn't,” Arthur said, placing both hands on his knees, braced for more of Mrs Sagramore's truths. “I promise.”

“Good.” She pushed the door open. “And Mr Pendragon...” she said from the threshold.

“Yes?”

“Don't let men like my husband dictate your actions.” She lowered her head. “Decline any and all Queen's Gambits.”

 

**** 

 

_Dear Arthur,_

_I received the package containing your friend's manuscript. I passed it on to Andy Morholt, as you wished me to. To be frank, I was with him right when the postman delivered it, so it was no hardship. I remember sitting in the morning room in with a cup of chocolate at my elbow, my old correspondence (which I hadn't yet answered though I had received the bulk of it days before) in a pile at my side, when the doorbell went off._

_“I'll get it,” I told Andy, who was gazing out of the window, a tea cup in his hand._

_“At this hour it can't be anything but the mail.”_

_“Well, I'll dash downstairs and see if it is.”_

_The postman was soaked to the skin with the pouring rain, water dripping from his cap in fat drops that never seemed to stop. “Miss Nemeth?”_

_“Yes, I said,” trying to draw the man in by plucking at his sleeve. “I'm Mithian Nemeth.”_

_“Parcel for you,” the postman said, proffering both the parcel and a slip of paper. “Sign along the line, if you please.”_

_Balancing the note on the package, I signed. “Are you sure you don't want to come inside? Weather's dreadful.”_

_“Quite sure, miss.”_

_I gave him back the slip and the postman doffed his hat. “Good day to you, miss.”_

_Bearing the parcel I walked back up the stairs. Given the weight of it, I had a fair idea of what it contained. Quite eager, I set it on my desk and cut the twine holding the package closed. As I had expected, the manuscript was revealed to my view. “Andy, please do come here and have a look.”_

_“What is it?” he said, walking, tea cup in hand, towards me._

_“This is something a friend sent me.” I patted the manuscript's title page. “A novel by a great friend of his. He wants me to read it.” I put my hand on his shoulder. “He'd also be very chuffed if you did the same.”_

_“Mithian.”_

_“Andy,” I said, trying to pre-empt any possible objection that he could make. “Arthur wouldn't ask me this if he wasn't sure of the quality of the material.”_

_Andy fetched a loud sigh and set his half empty tea-cup by. “If I had a penny for everybody who said that,” he said. With a little sigh, he added, “I will read it, but I'm only doing this for you.”_

_I passed him the manuscript, pressing it against his chest. “I'm sure you won't regret it.”_

_“Well, then,” said Andy, ambling over to the armchair closest to the window and settling in it. “Let's see what this novel is about.”_

_“I've been told it's about...”_

_Andy looked up from the glasses he'd just forked on the end of his nose. “I'd like to find that out for myself.”_

_“I'm sorry,” I said, casting my head down. “I didn't mean to spoil your enjoyment. But I'm good at that.”_

_“Come now,” Andy said, reaching his hand out. “Read with me.”_

_I moved to his side and leant my head against his shoulder._

_“Don't settle in too comfortably,” Andy said. “I usually only read the first three pages or so...”_

_“That sounds awfully judgemental.”_

_“When you're in my line of work, you'll find that time is of the essence,” said Andy, wrapping an arm around my shoulder. “You know, separating the wheat from the chaff.”_

_“You're sounding tremendously professional.”_

_“I hope I am,” he said, falling silent right next._

_We read together. Andy waited for me to finish the first page before turning it to get to the next. Rain battered the window violently, shaking it in its casement, while the wind howled dismally through the building. I trembled at the violence of the storm and snuggled up closer to Andy. I gave a little sigh. Before we knew it, we'd got to page thirty and the clock chimed eleven. “Hear this,” Andy said, reading a passage aloud, “this is so very descriptive of adolescent libido.”_

_“I do think it quite realistic,” I said, reading the passage over._

_“There's an honest punch to this,” Andy added, flipping the page. “It's quite raw and visceral, completely prosaic yet so poetic in its grittiness.”_

_“I do think it true,” I mumbled. “Turn the page. I want to know what Ambrose does when he understands what his longing is.”_

_“I have a feeling it's going to be quite graphic,” Andy said, moving onto the next page. “I'm fairly sure it's not going to be polite.”_

_“Just let me read, Andy,” I said, shushing him._

_Although they were tilted up at the corners, he compressed his lips. “Now she shushes me. I must have gone down in her good graces.”_

_“Read, Andy, read.”_

_He went through the next few pages in silence, until, after some five minutes, he said, “Ha! Ha! I knew it.”_

_“It's not quite as explicit as it could be,” I observed, humming under my breath. “But at the same time you just know what it is that's going on, what he's doing, and how he perceives it to be both liberating and lewd.”_

_He laughed and whistled. “Yes, indeed, so it is.”_

_We read some more until the maid knocked on the drawing room door. “Lunch is ready, Miss.”_

_I straightened and turned. She was standing in the doorway, with her hands clasped together and her apron as white as milk. “Is it already lunchtime?” At her put-upon face, I added. “Of course it is. Time does fly.”_

_“That it does,” said Andy, putting the manuscript down. “Especially when one's reading a good book, but we do apologise.”_

_After lunch we lit a fire in the fireplace, till we had a blaze that was merrily going, and settled on the sofa for some more reading. I had to take a call mid-afternoon and by the time I returned Andy had gone over more than twenty pages. He had his nose buried in the book, his foot gently tapping the carpet._

_“Does this mean that you like it?” I said, smiling at him._

_Andy looked up with a start. “I do appreciate its tone, yes.”_

_“Does this mean you're publishing it?”_

_Andy's eyebrow climbed. “I...”_

_“Andy, you know you love it.”_

_Andy took off his reading glasses, pocketed them, and held up a hand. “What I meant to say was that while I think we'll have a hard time advertising it as anything other than wilfully... shocking, I do think there's a niche for this. I know people at the Royal Court who'd love the working class epic this is.”_

_“Well then.” My lips twitched._

_“You can tell your friend that this is a tentative yes,” said Andy, rubbing the manuscript's cover. “Though of course I'll have to speak with both my superior and the author.”_

_“Isn't your boss Walter Hutchinson?” I asked. “Didn't you say the other day that he trusts you blindly?”_

_“Why, yes,” Andy said with a slight hesitation to his tone._

_“Terrific,” I said, bounding over to the desk. “I'll tell Arthur it's a deal.”_

_So here I am, dear Arthur, writing to tell you that your friend is going to be published by Lyonesse. His book is so very brilliant and gritty and powerful. He deserves this. Now I wish I could be a fly on the wall and be there when you tell him._

_Since that can't be quite done, I require an account of the moment. Leave nothing out!_

_Waiting on tenterhooks,_

_Ever yours,_

_Mithian_

 

****** 

 

His coffee steamed; smoke swirling in rings and whorls. It smelled like fresh dark beans and hazelnut, black with brown striations. Arthur stirred it with a little dented spoon and thumbed through the international edition of his morning paper. No one was sitting either side of him. With only the server flitting around him and making enough noise to distract him, he could in theory concentrate on his reading. In practice, his mind was blank of all thought because he refused to go over recent happenings. His his heart and mind were too numb for it.

Teaspoon down, Arthur lifted the cup to his mouth. He didn't drink, however, because before he could, Lancelot had sunk in the seat next to his. “I've been looking for you all over town.”

“Good morning to you,” Arthur said, taking a sip this time.

“We've got to talk,” Lancelot said, swivelling his stool just so he was angled fully towards Arthur. 

“I don't think so,” Arthur said, stirring his coffee again in repeated circular motions, clockwise, counter-clockwise. 

“You know,” Lancelot said, with the air of someone settling in for a long discussion, “when I first saw you I wasn't sure I trusted you. He was so... taken with your friendship.”

“You can't,” said Arthur, not knowing whether he meant that Lancelot oughtn't be talking about this in public or whether he meant he couldn't face the notion of what he had say, how much pain it'd bring. To be honest, though, Arthur feared that whatever Lancelot had to say would slice his heart in parts that couldn't be sewn back together.

“Oh no,” Lancelot said, “I do fear that I'll have to address this, out of loyalty to my friend.”

“Let's have a walk,” Arthur said, throwing back the last of his coffee and leaving a few coins behind to foot the bill.

They walked up a country road set midway between the town proper and the old ruins. Today the road was brown and a dusty almond, subdued with the tones of autumn, the air pale in the absence of the golden glare of the previous season. It was a path that Arthur had trodden before, in the early days, when he'd just come to Greece and had started exploring. When he'd but met Merlin once and only had known the brightness of him, of his welcoming warm smile and firm handshake. A time Arthur thought of as quite blessed in perspective. 

“He's quite down,” Lancelot said, hands in his pocket as they climbed up the road. “He's not said one word to me, not past telling me that he didn't think I'd see you again.”

“I--”

“No,” Lancelot pre-empted him, “let me finish, please. Normally, I wouldn't do this. You've got to understand. I believe in not interfering. But Merlin is a dear friend to me and...”

Arthur grunted, a noise that was a cross between derision and hurt. He was aware he couldn't quite throw Lancelot's affection for Merlin in his face, not with what he himself had done. But Arthur was sure it didn't compare, couldn't possibly, to what he felt. 

“And I can't bear to see him quite so... vacant and distraught,” Lancelot said. “It's really painful. Yesterday... he spent the day at the restaurant, sitting in a corner chair with his notebook open.”

“At least he's writing.”

“He's not, I don't think,” Lancelot said, catching Arthur's gaze. “That notebook was an excuse.”

“I'm sorry,” Arthur said, knowing very well that that expression didn't come to encompass how much he grieved the ghost of Merlin's happiness, how it gutted him to know that he'd taken it away. “I--” he sobbed, hand to his temple.

“Look,” Lancelot said, stopping, a hand on his arm. “I don't claim to know how it feels like.”

Arthur whipped his head up. He blew out a breath, threw his head back, and closed his eyes. “No, no, you don't.”

“But I do know this,” said Lancelot, pressing hard against his shoulder, stepping in front of him. “No matter how I cut up I was about it, I would try and make up for the pain I gave.”

Arthur nodded. “You may be a much better man than me.”

“I don't think that at all, not for one moment,” Lancelot said with such buoyant conviction Arthur almost believed him. 

Yet he couldn't because Arthur had given Merlin pain and that wasn't the action of a good man. He had inflicted wounds Merlin should never have had to deal with and he'd cut himself open in the process. He'd bled himself dry and his heart was a stone now that sat rigid in his chest. He fancied he could feel the hard lump every time he swallowed. “You give me far too much credit.”

“No,” said Lancelot, “I don't. I thought Merlin found the right person to have faith in.”

Arthur looked swiftly away, a nerve clenching in his jaw. “It seems not.”

“I think you're going through a lot,” Lancelot said in a soft tone, trying to engage Arthur so he'd look at him again. “I know love doesn't come easy. There were times during the war when I was kept away from Elaine. Circumstances seemed to be dead set against us and I thought it would be impossible for us to ever be together... I despaired... I--”

A sigh lifted Arthur's chest, plunged the stone in his chest deeper. “But see,” he said, “I caused pain. I... I'm not a victim of fate, of war... It's not... I'm the guilty party.”

“Did you in any way deceive Merlin?” Lancelot asked, point blank, but with a calm to his voice and a gentleness to his face that made Arthur answer, “No. But that doesn't mean anything.”

“Then I don't think you're guilty.”

“Not guilty of giving pain where none was there?”

“I know he was hurt,” Lancelot said, with a terse lift of his shoulders. “I can't say that he wasn't. But I can still understand that you may give someone pain without wishing to.”

“I can't undo it,” said Arthur, lips twisting in a grimace, “can I?”

“Not in the sense of making it go away as though it never was,” said Lancelot, nodding his head. “But talk to him, smooth things over...”

“I was--” Arthur made fists of his hands and looked down. “--about to leave Greece.”

Lancelot took a fraction of a step back. He didn't retreat by much but it was clear he was repulsed by what Arthur had said. “Do you think that's fair to Merlin in any way?”

“No, of course not!” Arthur said, with more grit to his voice than there should have been, too much vehemence, too much rawness. “It's not fair to him. Not at all! I hate what I've done to him, myself for having done it, for the coward that I am...”

“Then be brave...”

Arthur wanted to take that leap and call himself so, but there were voices in his head that told him not to dare, that courage was surely defined by other types of actions – defending one's country, running into a burning building to save its occupants -- and that satisfying one's passions – however devastating – wasn't a brave thing to do but a selfish one. “I--”

“Meet up with Merlin at least,” Lancelot told him in such a paternal tone Arthur would have laughed at if he'd been in the mood. “Tell him yourself. Tell him you're going away for good. Or if you should change your mind, stay and patch things up with him. Either way you can't up and leave without telling him.”

Arthur imagined the moment Merlin learnt he had gone without saying a word. The vividness of the image brought him to his knees, took the sap out of him, hurt him in corners of his soul that he'd thought he'd struck insensate before. Not really, apparently. He looked at Lancelot, at the road ahead of him. “We'll see,” he said, unable to fathom out all the different futures he could have depending on what choice he made now. “We'll see.”

 

***** 

 

The ground was strewn with grass that had grown between the big marble slabs that paved the way to the temple of Apollo. Today the ruins were washed in greys and whites, the air was milky with it, cold with the winds from the mountain behind, which crowned the plateau on which the site rose, pine clad and sheer, charcoal and black like lances aiming for the sky.

Arthur sat on the steps to the temple, close to where he and Merlin had perched on a summer day that now seemed to belong to the past. Shoulders hunched, the collar of his jacket turned up, Arthur joined his hands together and tapped his foot against the ground. He unclasped his fingers, jingled his hand. The wind whipped at his nape and at his ears. He pushed off the ground and paced, two columns marking the limits of his toeing and froing.

When Arthur had his back turned away from the path, Merlin's voice startled him. “You're here.”

Though he wanted to spin around, his body in a fine tremor with the need to, Arthur couldn't quite, not yet. He was afraid he wouldn't survive seeing Merlin again, not with his soul intact. He was sure rather that if he did turn, he would never be quite the same again. He would shatter and nobody would ever be able to re-assemble him. 

“Arthur,” Merlin gasped and there was such a broken note to his voice Arthur felt his heart clatter in his chest and throat and fingertips.

He couldn't keep facing away then.

Merlin looked gaunt, brittle, his complexion gave him an aura of transparency. There were hollows in his cheeks and dark half moons under his eyes. His face appeared too long, all chin, and his cheekbones too stark. His mouth was pursed. His eyes looked haunted, darkness flickering in them. His clothes seemed to hang on his frame, a bit too big, not at the shoulders but surely at the hips. Yet, unlike Arthur, he had made an effort towards appearing presentable, his hair, often tousled, was carefully combed and his chin was free of stubble. 

“I'm sorry,” Arthur said, because that was the first thing that needed to be said, because the sight of Merlin hurt him in the heart and the diaphragm. “I'm sorry.”

“You just...” Merlin said, his eyes getting wetter by the second, his face a taut knot of what looked like pain. “You didn't say anything... You just left me to guess why.”

“I--” Arthur tailed off, not knowing what he could possibly do to stem Merlin's pain. He wanted to. He wanted to as much as he wanted the next breath, but the truth was that any words to come out of his mouth wouldn't help with that.

“I suppose I did guess rightly,” Merlin said, lifting his shoulders up to his ears. “I mean in the end I managed to put two and two together.”

Pain dawned on Arthur fresh and bright at the evidence of Merlin's. “I wasn't brave. I couldn't take it. I--”

Merlin's brows twitched together. “You think I wouldn't have understood? That I couldn't sympathise?”

“I was sure you probably could,” Arthur told him, fingertips sweating with the pressure of unburdening himself. “But I wasn't seeking sympathy.”

“You were looking to finishing it,” Merlin said, swallowing.

Arthur watched the slide of his throat as he did. He started towards Merlin, a need to comfort him spurring him, but he stopped short in fear of hurting Merlin all the more. For Merlin seemed to be holding himself together by a thread. His body was taut, he was hugging himself and his eyes were brimming over with tears he wasn't shedding. “I couldn't ask for your help. Not when I knew what I was doing was... that it was wrong.”

“It wasn't wrong, Arthur,” Merlin said, with more understanding than Arthur was deserving of. “You were – are – free to end it. If you think you can't live with the fear, you can. It's your choice.”

Black water sapped the strength in Arthur's bones. A fog appeared before his eyes. He didn't want to be given leave to break Merlin's heart. He didn't want Merlin to justify him. He would have understood if Merlin had lashed out at him. He'd be fine with that. To be frank, he would have loved to be raged at. As it was, Merlin was taking the stone that was Arthur’s heart and giving it new blood. It hurt, the way a numb limb would after being moved. More, it took everything Arthur had and Arthur was and turned it into an infinite ball of never ending pain. “My feelings for you were my choice. You were my choice.”

“But then things happened,” Merlin said. “You were ashamed.”

“Not of you!” Arthur stepped forward, the words torn from his throat. “Never of you!”

“But you did feel shame.”

He whooshed out a sigh of consternation, of weariness. “I keep thinking... I know it's not wrong. I know it with my body that it's not wrong. But I keep resenting it: the gossip, the stares, the condemnation. Everything. I keep feeling small and chided. Not a man worthy of the name.”

“I understand that.”

“No,” Arthur said, shaking his head. “You don't let that affect you. Others. I know your marvellous courage.”

“And how do you know?” Merlin asked, voice scratched raw. “How can you be so sure?”

“I read your book,” Arthur answered. “I know that Ambrose is you. And he's... He bears it. He's proud. Like you are.”

Merlin swiped a hand at his jaw and huffed. “Oh Arthur,” Merlin said, taking a sheet of paper out of his pocket. “You don't... You don't get it, do you? That you're not alone. That we're the same, fighting the same fight. Against the world, against everything.”

“You,” said Arthur his lips stiff against the world. “You're not like me. You're... God, Merlin, you've got yourself together. There's no... there's no clash between who you are and what you do. You don't listen to the voices in your brain--” He was gesticulating now, one hand punctuating his words, fingertips touching his temple where a headache seemed to bloom. “The one that tells you to buckle down and live the life you're supposed to even if your heart rejects it with all its might.”

Merlin slipped the sheet he had been holding into Arthur's pocket. “Don't I?”

“I--” Arthur looked at the bulging in his pocket. “What's that?”

“Something I want you to read,” Merlin said with a gentle, though uneasy smile, his eyes awash with tears. “Something I wrote for my novel but that of course had to be taken out. Because...” He scoffed. “Nobody would ever publish that.” He looked down. “I don't know why I brought it along or what I meant to achieve giving it to you. I suppose I wanted you to know about me.”

“I'll read it,” Arthur said, his throat clogged with his heart. “I promise you that.” He smiled then. “About your book, I wrote to my friend. Mithian, I must have mentioned her.”

Merlin exhaled with surprise, his eyebrow shooting up. “Yes, yes, of course. But I don't--”

“Mithian has a friend,” Arthur explained. “And he's read your novel...”

“I don't,” Merlin said, mouth hanging open. “I didn't--”

“It doesn't matter,” Arthur said, wishing he could touch Merlin on the shoulder, reassure him, while knowing full well that he couldn't, because he'd broken faith with him. “I know you didn't submit it to anyone else. But I did for you. And I apologise if that's not what you wanted. You're free to back out. But just in case you do want it, this friend of Mithian's wants to publish you.”

Merlin took his gaze away, breathed hard through his nostrils. “Did you,” he asked, his mouth a thin line. “Is this your way of making it up to me? I can't have what I wish in my heart I could...” Merlin made sure to lock eyes with him. “...so you're using your clout to get me this?”

“No!” Arthur made a grab for Merlin's wrist. “No, we hadn't even. We were still in Athens... Before we came back here. I couldn't possibly have known, could I?”

“All right,” Merlin said, head tilted to the side, his eyebrow a stark arch. “Did you use your influence?”

“I don't even know the man,” Arthur said. “Your book influenced him, nothing and no one else did.”

“Let's say that I accept that,” Merlin said, shuffling, wiping at his mouth. 

“Do, don't sell yourself short.” Arthur thrust his jaw out, caressed Merlin's wrist. “Never do such a thing.”

“Okay, all right.” Merlin sniffled.

Arthur smiled, touched his thumb to Merlin's pulse point, above his watch strap. “Now that's the kind of attitude I want to hear from you, my... friend.”

A gasp, then Merlin said, “Can we...” Merlin gave him a wan smile, a solitary tear winding down his cheek, which he wiped quickly with the back of his hand. “Can we talk. Another time? After you've... read it?”

“Yes,” Arthur said, dabbing at that tear with his own palm, wishing he could press all his love into Merlin's ribs instead, so he could guard it, because Merlin was a much better keeper of it. “Yes, of course we can.”

 

***** 

 

Shoes off, Arthur sat on his bed and fished the note out of his pocket. It was folded in four so Arthur had to smooth it out again to be able to read it. It was a typewritten page, set the same as Merlin's manuscript, except for the notes written by hand here and there in slapdash fashion, so different from the neatness of the copy Merlin had destined for submission.

Easing the corners of the paper outwards, Arthur drank in air and started reading.

 

_Ambrose's skin feels too small for his body, or his body too large for his skin. Whatever the strange mix-up of signals, he feels exposed to the bone. He's bursting at the seams, charged with a desire for endless motion, for continuous action, for the surprise of adrenaline. He wants it to give unity to the parts of him that seem to have gone adrift within his soul. He's craving a dissolution of the brain._

_The night hushes all sound around him and the balm of tree sap is in the air, whimsical, oddly magical. He pushes the door open. The light is feeble, flickering, but enough to show him his surroundings. Under a dirty mirror, smudged with countless hand prints, four white ceramic basins stick out, cracked and dirty around the taps. Opposite them urinals are recessed into the floor. They're round, extravagantly tall, with three toilet stalls behind them._

_Ambrose goes to the basin and opens the tap. The water crashing coldly downwards, he watches the shadows on the floor, the muddy footprints on pale tiles, the deposits of dead-leaves from outside, the overflowing rubbish bin, ribbons of beige toilet paper cramming it. In the mirror, he catches the eyes of a man, his face a little blurry through tears of dirt and condensation. The man's hair is dark, receding at the temples though not by much. His eyes are an indeterminate colour between almond and green, a peculiar hue, quite uncommon. There are stubble shadows on his chin and jaw, his neck, where a white collar, buttoned up to the last button, curls against the lapels of a grey pinstripe suit. His tie is slim, sober, a dark blue arrow of fabric pointing downwards. Civil Servant, quite respectable, nine to fiver?_

_As Ambrose soaps up, the man weighs his cock in his palm. Not so respectable, after all, not in the sense that most people would affix to the word. The gaggle of voices from Ambrose's church, very pious and very traditional, upstanding, would condemn the man on the spot. Damned. Head cocked, Ambrose knuckles soap scented like artificial roses into his palm._

_The man smiles, toys with the head of his prick, makes it fatten with hard pulls._

_Ambrose rinses his hands. Waits._

_The man's lips curl in a smile that could mean many things. Ambrose recognises it as an invitation. He nods, if one can call that barely perceptible move of his a nod, the thrill of the decision going to his head, beating his blood up._

_The man's cock is big enough, veined, a dark colour. Ambrose arches an eyebrow in a dance of possibility._

_The man turns around, doesn't do up his fly._

_In a stir of the senses Ambrose walks up to him. They face each other, breathing through their nostrils. There's something of the stand-down about this, the risk high, the possible rewards enticing. With hands that smart with heat, Ambrose whips his cock out. No ceremony. It doesn't apply. His companion does nothing but share the silence of the night with him, until he breaks it._

_“No names,” the man says._

_Ambrose agrees. He doesn't want a name. He wants recognition for what it is he's feeling, the absurdly cocky excitation of allowing himself this, of being obscene, and quite open with it. It's fucking high time for it. Through shivers of fear and elation, Ambrose agrees to their silent, mutual contract, their bargain of the flesh. “No names.”_

_In the wan light of the lavatory the man smiles, turns him round and slams him against the wall in the narrow space between two urinals. He strokes himself, hard, with little finesse, all wrists and a red, chafed palm. His fingers are thick, his nails blunt, but his hands are clean, the nails trimmed nicely, with no dirt underneath. His watch has black leather straps and a gold quadrant._

_“You contributing?” the man says with a growl, low, guttural, fitting. It sharpens him, much like a challenge, his face hard with brusque, basic need. No gentleness here, but gentleness is not what Ambrose is here for. Ambrose is here for the scent of sex in his nostrils, for the satisfaction of sharing such a moment with another living, breathing person, for the defiance in it. Tonight Ambrose is drunk on that defiance. Tired of everything else._

_“Yes,” Ambrose says, knowing he need not say more, specify, open up. He can be quite opaque and at the same time he can bare himself in the most spectacular of fashions, the most obvious. He tilts his hips forwards into his own touch._

_He moans, lets himself be lewd, not so much because of the shock of pleasure, though it jars his bones, resettles them in an odd construction that makes him not quite the usual Ambrose, but because he can be. He can be appallingly dirty in situations such as this, with only a stranger for company, a man just like him._

_The lights from the light bulbs go in and out, washing everything out in a ghostly shine, surfaces of white. Earthy smells clog his nose; the smack of cool ceramic against the small of his back sends shivers down his spine. Wonderfully real, not a part to play, not at all, not anymore._

_He goes to his knees._

_“Yes,” the man says, groans, meshes his fingers in Ambrose's hair, rough, forceful, yet not bypassing the threshold between pain and pleasure. Darkly, Ambrose wants him to, imagines the indignation of a silent, faceless crowd of spectators baulk at his desires. His cock hardens. He holds the man's cock with his hand, pulling in long strokes that leave his hands wet with a sheen of pre-come, working the soft skin over the length, watching as it keeps growing. Power, there's such a power to this, acknowledging the man's lust, a mirror of his own, like those others can, those who fit. All manner of fanciful thought constructions aside, there's a beauty to this man's anatomy that Ambrose loves, no puns intended. Fully hard, the man is, in fact, quite amazing, not the most perfect Ambrose's ever seen, but he looks good, smells good, and provides the promise of a fulfilment Ambrose, in his quiet country lad beginnings, has always been denied. There's some kind of poetry to that, a certain lunatic romanticism. This is for himself as much as it is for the unknown whose cock he's put his mouth to, circling, nibbling, sucking, teasing._

_“God, oh my god," the man rasps. “Want to fuck your arse next, leave it raw.”_

_The posh tones of the man sound somewhat ludicrous when he's spouting such language, but Ambrose isn't past seeing a certain kind of absurd loveliness in that. He doesn't kid himself. Ambrose doesn't. He has no affection for the man himself, but he does feel a tenderness towards that part of himself that can be accepting of his partner, of how absurd he probably is, this man who, Ambrose fancies, probably never swears by daylight, who must be terribly proper._

_In and out of his mouth he sucks the tip of the man's prick, tasting its bitterness. He takes it deeper in, letting him hit the back of his throat, letting the man take all his words from him. His eyes water with a sheen of tears; he relaxes his throat. He hesitates before fisting himself, but then gives in._

_The light of the torch blinds him more than the tears in his eyes do._

_The fullness leaves his mouth as the man vaults backwards, cock out, hard and pointing. To be able to understand what's happened, Ambrose blinks several times, but then again he knows, deep in his bones what this is. He's paying his dues._

_The light shines off the visor of the bobby's helmet. “Out, you two, out!” the bobby says, gruff, menacing, grabbing the man by the scruff of his jacket and hurling him out of the lavatory, cock out and all. The high tramp of a running person punctuates the break in the silence of the night._

_Ambrose stiffens in his crouch. By the time the bobby's on him, Ambrose has stopped breathing, and his heart has started hammering so hard Ambrose thinks it will crush his stilling lungs. His mind's crippled of thought. His face burns in waves that sear his face off, like smouldering coals nesting under his skin. He tucks himself in. The bobby picks him up by his shirt. When Ambrose's vision sharpens, he exhales a puff of surprise._

_“Ambrose, you stupid, stupid man!” Will says. “You stupid, stupid idiot.”_

_“I--” Ambrose says, eyes searching the floor, his bravado gone in the disappointment he reads in his old friend's face. “I wanted--” But he can't explain what he wanted, not in terms a man like Will will understand._

_“Ambrose, for fuck's sake, mate,” Will says. “Why did you risk it like this. Why?”_

_Eyes lowered, Ambrose stammers quietly. “I wanted to be touched by someone.”_

_“And a friend wouldn't have done? You couldn't ask somebody you knew?”_

_Ambrose bristles, he's a thorn, all prickly in his defences. “In secret. In a borrowed room? In and out before dawn, so that the upstanding citizens don't see!”_

_Will kneads his shoulder. “That's not... That's now what I mean.”_

_“But it is,” Ambrose says. “It is what you mean. You can't mean anything else.”_

_“Christ, mate, it's the law,” says Will, his face contorting with what Ambrose reads as pity, a pity that mortifies him more than an outright attack would. “You know how it works... And it's not just about you. You have to be prudent for your friends' sakes as well. If I hadn't been here, if another constable was on patrol, you'd have been arrested--”_

_“I know that,” Ambrose, says both grateful and resentful of the mercy that is going to spare him prison time._

_“And once they get their hands on a known...” William trails off, his lips paling. “...they'll trawl his address book to get more names. And those poor sods who happen to be in there will end up in the dock. Is that what you want?”_

_“No,” Ambrose says, his legs shaking, his arms spasming, his insides flipping, nearly shedding their lining. His mind fogs up, goes black. “No.”_

_Will tugs him out of the lavatory and into the cool night air. The trunks of trees loom colourless in the distance; conks are under foot. “There's a colleague on patrol,” he says, pointing him bodily towards the park exit. “You don't want to be seen here. God knows they've been known to stop...”_

_“Queer looking people,” Ambrose says, venom in his throat._

_“Yes.” William claps him on the shoulder. “Sorry, mate.”_

_Ambrose totters out of the park._

The sheet fluttered to the ground. Arthur's breath quickened and sobs shook his frame. The tears began to flow, real and fast falling, tremulous spasms of pain that took his whole body into their grip. He palmed his forehead with his hand. He was silent. Choked up and silent, tasting salt on his lips, his face hot.

He swayed and got up, made for the phone booth in the lobby downstairs. He dialled a number and got the operator. He asked her to connect him to, “324NRS, Northstowe, Cambridge, United kingdom.

“Please hold, sir,” the operator told him.

Before long Geoffrey answered, “Pendragon Mansion, who am I speaking to?”

“Geoffrey,” Arthur said, “this is Arthur; may I speak to my father, please?”

“Mr Pendragon is busy with guests, sir,” Geoffrey said, in the same tone he'd said hello.

“Yes, well,” Arthur said, shifting from foot to foot in the stifling phone booth, “put him through, please. He'll want to hear what I have to say.”

“Sir,” Geoffrey said, and this time Arthur made out an hint of annoyance in his tone. “I'm under orders not to disturb Mr Pendragon when he's receiving.”

“Geoffrey,” Arthur said, biting his tongue, “just get my father on the telephone, please. It's important.”

Something in his tone must have convinced Geoffrey, for his next words were, “I'll see what I can do, sir.”

For the longest time, Arthur heard no noises on the line but some vague creaking. Those sounds and the absence of a call end tone were the only hints he was still connected. Then the staticky sounds let off and Father's voice greeted him with the words, “Arthur?”

“Father.”

Father pre-empted him. “What is this, Arthur? You don't telephone or write for months, then suddenly you interrupt me during a social gathering? This is very ill-mannered of you.”

“Father, listen,” Arthur said, “I need to talk to you and for you not to interrupt.”

“I ought to object and insist you learn manners, but I'll do as you ask,” Father said, rounding off his sentence with a sigh. 

“I needed to talk to you because I've made a decision,” Arthur said in a rush of words. “A decision I've been waiting to make all of my life it seems.”

“Arthur,” Father asked, “are you all right?”

Arthur laughed, dabbed at his forehead with his arm. “Yes, yes, I think I'm quite all right, Father. I'm nervous, but that happens, doesn't it? When you take life head on that happens.”

“Arthur,” Father said, in a tone that was less stiff and more, dare Arthur think it, concerned. “You're making no sense.”

“But I am, Father,” Arthur said. “For the first time I'm making sense to myself. I'm going to see a dear friend in a minute and I'm going to tell him the truth about what's been weighing on my heart all this time.”

“Arthur,” Father said, snappish now. “You're clearly not well. Your divorce must have upset you more than I thought. You must come back home at once.”

“No,” Arthur said, shaking his head as if his father were there to see him. “No, sir. I'm going to do something completely different. I'm going to apologise to him and hopefully I'm going to be able to find the words to tell him just what he means to me--”

“Arthur--”

“--how dear he is to me.”

“Arthur,” his name an explosion of breath on Father's lips. “Stop talking nonsense. You're clearly unwell, ill--”

“I just called because it needed to be said,” Arthur said, broadening his shoulders as he finally found a way to breathe again. It's as though he hadn't done it in years, ever since he reached adulthood even. “Because you needed to know my heart. It's him. That's it, it's him.”

Even as he lowered the receiver, Arthur could hear his father's half formed protests. They helped him hang up.

 

***** 

 

Breathless, Arthur pattered up the last flight of steps. There was no doorbell. Arthur knocked with his fist, a sharp rap that sounded demanding to his own ears. Sounds came from inside the flat. Limned by orange light, Merlin opened the door, in a tee shirt and frayed baggy brown trousers, his braces hanging down.

“May I?” Arthur asked, looking past Merlin and to the interior of his flat.

“Arthur,” Merlin breathed out. “I wasn't...”

“I can come back,” Arthur said, flipped his arm about, pointed backwards. “Or not at all, as you please.”

Merlin dragged him inside. “Stay.”

Arthur huffed a laugh, smoothed out the lapel that Merlin had crumpled. “I think I got the message.”

Merlin let go of him. “Sorry.”

“No, I am,” said Arthur, pulling Merlin close with the hand that had slipped to his nape. “I am sorry for not looking past my own feelings.”

“I didn't give you my story so that you'd feel sorry for me,” Merlin whispered, his lips moving quickly as his eyes roved the floor. “Or to guilt you. I wanted to let you know that I understand how you feel, the shame. I realise my way of feeling things is probably not yours and that ultimately the way I coped won't be the way you do... but...” 

“I know that,” Arthur said, hushing Merlin with his voice and with the path his thumb took on his skin. “I know that...”

Merlin inhaled, cupped the hand at his neck with his. “Arthur, what do you... Why are you here?”

Arthur said, “Because I'm tired of being in pain and giving pain, Merlin.”

“I see.”

“I want to stop...” He tilted his head back and inhaled. “I want to stop being at other people's mercy. I want to stop being the person who shames you...”

“You've never--” Merlin started, his eyes softening. 

“I have,” Arthur said, with a big shuddering sigh that left him both completely depleted and lighter of body. “Let's not quibble. I did act as though you were something I should be ashamed of. I even tried to leave Greece so as not to see you again. But the truth is I am not ashamed of you.” He paused, his heart welling out from under his ribs. “I admire everything that you are, just the way you are. You're--” He snatched his gaze away, collecting a breath for courage. “Everything that I'm proud of,” he confessed. “I'm even proud of me for... for caring for you as I do. I--”

In a blink of an eye Merlin darted forward, wrapping his arms around Arthur's shoulders and holding on tightly, burying his hot face against Arthur's neck. “Be proud of who you are.” Arthur felt him trembling in his arms, with a force that pulsed from him in waves. “Because you're a good man.” 

“I'm not,” Arthur said, because he couldn't believe it, though he was sure of Merlin's faith in him. “What I'm poorly attempting to say though is--” Arthur stopped, his heart working too hard in his chest, waiting for the pain in it to subside, at least a little. “--that I want to try it out with you. Even though I'm afraid, I want to try again. I know there's no reason why you should even want it when I--”

Merlin breathed hard and kissed his neck, one single fluttering pulse of his lips. “Arthur, nothing on earth would make me not want to try.”

“I can't promise it'll be easy,” Arthur said, “but I want to love you fearlessly.”

Merlin drew back a notch, his breath a cloud of warmth on Arthur's lips, his heart in his eyes. “And then you dare say you're not brave.”

“I most certainly haven't been your knight in shining armour.”

“No.” Merlin nodded, lips pursed, punching Arthur's in the heart with his words, so much so that his chest took fire and licked at his bones from the inside. Then he smiled, a twitchy, lopsided, gentle smile. “You're the man I love.”

Arthur kissed the hot of Merlin's mouth.

 

***** 

 

Arthur carried his drink to the window. Across the cobbled street lights were appearing in the low white washed houses, pre-empting those of dawn. He downed the whisky in one, then poured himself and Merlin another. "Why?" Arthur asked in a voice burnt by the alcohol. “I mean, you tried to explain... in your edited note, but you never really made it clear... what kind of defiance you thought it was.”

Merlin nodded. “People condemn it. The way I want to love. The way I want sex. I thought if I had lots and lots, more than them, in as...” He made air quotes. “... as scandalous a manner as I could, then I was sticking it to them. Being proud... I dunno, sublimating my sexuality into this pure chant of revolt. I thought it was quite romantic, though of course, the more tangible kind of romance was lacking in my dalliances.” His eyes brightened when they met Arthur's. “It took me a while to realise, but I most decidedly did after the incident with Will. So I came here. I don't think it was too bad an idea.”

Arthur toyed with his glass. “Was that the mistake you were talking about in Athens?”

“Not in so many words,” Merlin said, sipping his whisky and resting the glass on his lap. “It may be right for some. I'm sure there's lots of people for whom that might work out.” Merlin's mouth tilted at the corners. “But I'm a romantic at heart, I think. I was probably doing something that only hurt me in the end.”

“God, I was quite self-absorbed.” Arthur winced. “I never asked you a thing. I just assumed... you knew everything about everything.”

Merlin chuckled. “Who ever does not?” He nudged Arthur's shoulder with this. “And you weren't being self-absorbed. You couldn't have imagined. And I was being wilfully secretive.”

Arthur opened his mouth to speak, but Merlin kissed him on the cheek and said, “I was... I wasn't ashamed for myself. But I did think that you wouldn't be appreciative of my past... If you knew.”

“I'm appreciative of everything that's made you the person you are today,” Arthur said, locking eyes with Merlin. “What's made you you. I like that you.”

Merlin grinned softly. “Even with your background?”

“I was raised to love goodness and honour,” Arthur said, taking Merlin's hand, interlacing their fingers, watching the play of them as they interlocked. “And you've got both in spades.”

“So you think you're going to keep me?” Merlin asked, eyes down, tone charged though Arthur could tell Merlin had made an effort to keep it level. “In spite of everything?”

“Oh, yes,” Arthur said. “Because of everything.”

Merlin put his glass on the sill just as dawn lit the street, brightening one end even while the other was stippled in darkness. “Good. Come to bed?”

“Yes. Yes, of course, I will.”

 

**** 

 

Arthur walked with his suitcase in hand past the hotel door. A blue convertible was parked in front of it, the paint looking like glass veneer meant to shine in the sun. Leaning against the door was Vivian Sagramore. She was wearing sunglasses and a ribbon in her hair that tied off a ponytail that swung in the wind. Her skirt was the same colour as the car, widening off from the hips down. She had her arms crossed and her ankles too.

In the absence of her husband, Arthur walked up to her. “Mrs Sagramore.”

“You're leaving,” she said, her eyebrows climbing behind the shield of her sunglasses. 

Arthur looked down at his suitcase. “Yes, I am.” He widened his stance. “I'm moving in with Mr Emrys.”

Vivian Sagramore resettled against the car. “I'm glad.”

“You're going away too?” Arthur asked, unable to miss the cases stacked on the white leather seats in the back of the car and the open, bulging boot.

“Yes.” Vivian inclined her head. “Harry got it into his head to drive all the way up Yugoslavia and to Italy. He wants to stop in Trieste.”

Arthur put his case down and stuck his hand out. “I wish you all the luck.”

Vivian Sagramore took his hand, pushed off the car, off her toes, and kissed his cheek. “I wish you the same.”

When the tones of Harry's voice sounded from the lobby, Arthur retrieved his suitcase and said, “I'll be going now.”

“I'm sure you'll be more than delighted to see the back of us,” Mrs Sagramore said with a lopsided twist of her mouth. “Farewell, Mr Pendragon.”

“Good bye, Mrs Sagramore.”

 

**** 

_2 December, 1952_

_Dear Arthur,_

_I'm writing to share some news with you. I don't know how you'll take it, but I do hope it won't shake your equilibrium. Last week I paid a visit to Mr Percival Browne, the society photographer. I may have forgotten to tell you, but I went to a few auditions and was subsequently hired to play a character called Norma in a small film they're shooting at Ealing Studios. To rack up some publicity for the picture, they're going to publish a series of low-key, naturalistic photos of the cast. They think they will stir some interest._

_This was the reason why I spent an entire afternoon posing in a variety of sets and positions at Mr Browne's studio in Highbury. At five o'clock I was sitting on a velvet armchair with my back to a window and an eighteenth century painting respectively. The painting represented a lady holding a fan while sitting at a whist table. I was supposed, I think, to be its modern counterpart. The make-up girl was giving the finishing touches to my face, brushing powder across it, when Gwen of all people poked her head in the studio door._

_“Oh,” she said, cupping her mouth, “I suppose I'm too early, aren't I?”_

_Mr Browne stopped fiddling with the lenses of his camera and said, “Uh, no, it's just that I'm running a little late.” He tipped his head at the window. “You know light...”_

_“Oh, yes,” said Gwen, retreating. “I see. I'll wait in the anteroom.”_

_“Yes, please,” said Mr Browne. “I'll be with you as soon as I'm finished with this shoot.”_

_I was very curious to find out what had brought Gwen to Mr Browne's and caused us to cross paths. But I had to finish my job first._

_“Miss Nemeth,” said Mr Browne, lifting his camera to his eye and turning the aperture ring, “I want you to cradle your cheeks, yes, just like that, and give me your profile. I want you to look pensive.”_

_I did as instructed. “Will this do?” I asked, not breaking pose._

_“Yes,” said Mr Browne. “You're fantastic, Miss Nemeth.”_

_Mr Browne took a bunch more photos, moving around me, or asking me to shift a little so as to get a variety of angles he thought could work. He also made me pose by the mirror to create a game of reflections. I'm sure his ideas were all brilliant, and that the shoot will turn out fine, thanks mostly to his talent, but I did get a little weary of posing after a while. Make this face, make that face, and nobody to emote with. Acting comes much easier to me than this modelling lark does. I don't know how mannequins cope! When he was done, Mr Browne lowered his camera and said, “I think we're done. I'll be ringing your agency in case we need do any more of these. But I think I've got what I want.”_

_I walked over to him, my hand extended. “It's been a pleasure working with you.”_

_“Likewise.”_

_I found Gwen in the anteroom, leafing through a look-book. When I came out of Mr Browne's studio, she lifted her head and, recognising me, walked over to me. “Mithian,” she said. “I'm so glad to see you.”_

_“Me too,” I told her, taking her hands in mine. “But what are you doing here?”_

_“Oh,” Gwen said, lifting the corner of her mouth. “I'm helping my brother to break into the renovation business. He's bought a house just like his, re-done it, and now means to sell it and get himself a margin.”_

_“That's brilliant!” I said, realising how perfect that was for Elyan, considering how good he'd been at converting his cottage. “But what has Percival Browne got to do with that?”_

_“Well, we want him to photograph the house,” Gwen explained. “It would be great in terms of publicity if he did it. And I'm sure he'd make Elyan's work appear to the best advantage. We need all the help we can get.” Her face fell. “If we can afford his fees, that is.”_

_I looked back over my shoulder at Mr Brown's office. “I think I have a bit of leverage. I'll try and put in a good word.”_

_Gwen put a gloved hand on her heart. “You don't know how thankful I'd be.”_

_“You needn't even mention it,” I told her. “You know, I promised to be your friend and I'd do this and more for one.”_

_Gwen dipped her head, her lip caught between her teeth. “I'm sorry we didn't meet during the summer.”_

_“I understand.”_

_“I'd have rung you,” Gwen added, “but things got a little... hectic. Complicated. It's been a very strange time.”_

_“Oh,” I said, her phrasing making me think about her situation; how divorce is never easy, especially for a woman. “I hope everything worked out fine for you.”_

_“Oh, yes, yes, it did.” She dimpled up at me, though there was something bashful about the way her features rearranged themselves._

_“I'm truly glad.” I smiled._

_“Yes, well,” she said, pushing a wisp of hair back, “I'm not sure whether you know. Whether Arthur would have told you, or if he knows yet. We've been dealing with his lawyers rather than him personally.” She breathed in, then added in a rush of words, “But I've just got my decree absolute, which means...”_

_“You're divorced now,” I breathed out, knowing how life altering a moment this would be for the both of you. “Officially.”_

_“Yes,” said Gwen, smiling, then losing the smile. “Yes, the financial settlement hasn't been agreed on yet, but our marriage is done with...”_

_“I don't know what I should say,” I said, walking Gwen over to the sofa she had abandoned to greet me._

_We both sat._

_“I know,” Gwen acknowledged, wrinkling her nose. “It is a bit awkward. Some people have congratulated me over being a free woman and some have made it clear they're terribly sorry my life is in shambles.”_

_“Oh, my god, I'm terribly--”_

_Gwen laughed. “Oh, no I was just quoting them. I assure you it's not.”_

_I laughed too. “Oh, my God,” I said, heaving a big sigh of relief, “I suppose you'll file me under the awkward reactions.”_

_“No, I swear I won't,” she said, shaking her head to dismiss the notion. “Besides, I have little reason to complain about any awkward situations when I've found my peace. That's more important than any awkwardness.”_

_“I'm glad you feel like that,” I said, thinking of you. I knew you'd be glad of this development. “Truly.”_

_“I know,” Gwen said. “Even though you're Arthur's friend first you've been nothing but kind to me.”_

_“I've had no reason not to be,” I said, smiling. “Not the slightest.”_

_“And that's why I'm going to ask you something though perhaps it's not wise.”_

_“Please, do not be afraid to ask.”_

_“I--” Gwen rubbed her skirt down her knees. “I want to give Arthur his copy of the decree absolute myself. It seems like the right thing to do.”_

_I bit my lip. “I don't think Arthur is returning to the UK right now.”_

_“I know,” Gwen said, releasing a breath. “I telephoned his father and he said as much. He was quite curt and dismissive.”_

_“You know how Mr Pendragon is,” I told her, squeezing her shoulder._

_“Yes, unfortunately,” she said, grimacing. “But I'd still like to know where he is. So I can do what I was planning.” She gave me a little hopeful look. “I was hoping you could tell me where he went.”_

_I hedged. “I'm not sure I should, you see how that is.” I thought of you in Greece and wondered whether seeing Gwen again so soon would do you good or not. “I shouldn't pass the information on without his say so.”_

_“I understand,” said Gwen, raising her face to meet my gaze. “I do.”_

_“It's nothing against you,” I hurried on to say. “But from what I gather Arthur is settling into a new life and, like you, he's had a tough time of it.”_

_Gwen bowed her head, her hair bouncing this way and that. “I see.”_

_“But I'm going to ask him,” I said, trying to sound as optimistic as possible. “And if he's ready to see you, I'll pass on his address.”_

_Gwen's lips bowed under the weight of a smile. “Thank you, Mithian. I ask for nothing more.”_

_I slipped my gloves on. “You don't need to thank me. I'll be happy to do this for you.”_

_And so here I am, Arthur, asking you whether you'd like to meet Gwen. In my heart of hearts I think you should, for closure, but the decision rests entirely with you. If you'd rather your lawyer deal with the matter, I'll tell her as much and beg her to understand the position you're in. If, on the other hand, you should find yourself inclined to agree to a meeting, tell me so and I'll forward your address._

_Hoping you and Merlin are fine,_

_Ever yours,_

_M_

_PS: One of these days I swear I'll come too and barge in on your life. You'll have to put me up and show me around the country. It will be obligatory, on pain of me sulking. Perhaps this summer? What do you think?_

_PPS: Andy wants to know when Merlin will be in London for the draft approval. Please telephone him and let him know._

 

**** 

 

Merlin lowered his bottoms a notch. The sheets rustled under them as Arthur leant over, touched him, a press of fingers down his arm, his palm cupping him. Merlin shivered, then turned around, the mattress sagging around him. He tugged Arthur's pyjamas to his knees, slinked down, found his cock with his soft lips, played his tongue around its head. 

It was a pleasure so deep, so truly surprising, even upon repeated performance, that it still wouldn't stop remaking Arthur in new shapes every time, new configurations of the self Arthur was keen on discovering. With hands he made as gentle as he could, he held Merlin to him, cradling his head, pushing his own face against the pillow, breathing hard into it, his own breath coming back to him warm and quick. 

Merlin gripped him tight, one hand at his flank. Arthur rocked his hips, his heart punched his ribs from the inside, drastically stopping his breath in his throat. He made short little thrusts that plunged him in warmth and set off spikes of keen pleasure, released a sigh on his last one.

When Arthur's chest stopped rising and falling frantically, Merlin scuttled up, grabbed him by the neck and kissed him hard on his mouth, knocking their teeth together, their whole faces clashing. He wrapped a hand around Merlin, tugged in the rhythm of his gasps, till Merlin lost the kiss and ended up licking his chin, sucking at its angles. Seizing, he came over Arthur's hand and belly. Arthur wiped it with his hand and rolled onto his back beside Merlin.

Merlin said: “It's nearly time.”

Arthur paid attention to his surroundings for the first time since waking. Sunlight was flooding half the room and had nearly touched the bed. By dint of observation Arthur had learnt that when that happened it was at least half past eight.

“You're right,” Arthur said, wiping a hand across his eyes. He felt so boneless he wouldn't have minded rolling around, closing his eyes and sleeping some more. “We should go.”

“Arthur,” Merlin said, tilting his head to look at Arthur, occasioning a whispering of sheets and pillow cases, “are you sure you want me to come?”

Blindly, Arthur found Merlin's hand, topped it with his. “Yes. Yes, I'm sure.”

“But--”

“There are too many limitations to what we are together,” Arthur said. “I won't add to them when I can help it.”

The dock of Piraeus looked like a mass of greys – the choppy sea and cloud streaked sky – and charcoals – the busy quays and pre-war warehouses. In the hazy distance you could see Athens, as it sprawled untidily around the base of a hill that enveloped the lesser slopes that rose around it in one suburban spread. The sun set fire to it, turning the houses and rooftops into a ball of orange and yellow.

The boat docked. With Merlin at his side, Arthur watched the passengers disembark, people crowding the outer decks and the gangplanks. Porters ran this way and that while dock officials patrolled the area, stepping about along the length of the dock.

Arthur scanned the general area, his eyes roving the entire scene. 

“Tell me again,” Merlin said, “how do I recognise them?”

“She's five four with a...” Arthur trailed off when he recognised Gwen. She was moving towards him, a canvas bag hooked around her lower arm, her handbag strapped across her chest. She hadn't changed a lot but she hadn't stayed exactly the same Gwen he remembered either. Her hair was noticeably shorter and her wardrobe had undergone a little bit of a make-over. She was wearing a cashmere coat Arthur had never seen on her, and a new scarf. Pearls looped around her neck in the old Gwen style though.

The image of her as she was now became superseded in Arthur's brain with one of Gwen in the early days of their acquaintance. She had smiled quietly then, babbled a little too much when trying to make conversation with him, looking all the while a little jittery, bouncy in a nervous fashion that had both given him energy and calmed him. If she was nervous, he'd thought, perhaps it was normal to be. Today she moved with a different kind of steady assurance, a poised grace she hadn't had a few years ago. Fortunately, she hadn't lost that the smile that characterised her, though that smile was tempered by some wariness now.

Arthur exhaled. Though all manner of thoughts were floating in his brain right now and though he couldn't tell what he was feeling, he knew at least he was glad he hadn't wiped the smile from her face.

Behind Gwen and carrying three cases was Leon, sunglasses on, his beard definitely thicker than it had been in court.

“Arthur,” she said, putting one of her travelling bags down. “Hello.”

“Gwen,” he breathed out. “It's been a long time.”

“Eight months,” she said, leaning up to kiss his cheek, taking his hand as she did; her fingers closed tightly and a little damply around his. “You don't look tanned.”

“Yes,” Arthur said, toying with the keys of their rented car, scratching at his cheek with the length of one. “Winter will do that for you.”

“I'd expected you'd be,” she said, sniffling through her nose. “Some idea I had. Of Greece, I suppose.”

“I do think I see why you'd think that.”

“Greece,” she said, smiling. She looked around then. “Looks lovely.”

“Yes. Greece,” Arthur said. 

“Wait till you see the good parts,” Merlin chimed in. “I'm sure that if you like it here, you'll like the rest much better.”

“Oh, um, I forgot to introduce Merlin,” Arthur said, angling his body towards him. “Merlin Emrys, this is Gwen, my... wife.”

“Ex, at this point,” said Gwen, dropping her handbag as she attempted to shake Merlin's hand. “A pleasure.”

“The same,” Merlin said, managing to at last catch Gwen's hand.

“And that's Leon Knightley,” Arthur said, waving his hand in Leon's direction. “My friend and Gwen's lawyer.”

“I'd shake your hand,” Leon said, rolling his shoulders up and lifting the cases he was carrying by a few extra inches, “but as you can see...”

“Pleasure to meet you, nonetheless.”

“I'd better see about a porter,” Arthur said, looking around in search of one. “So we can relieve Leon.”

“I don't think that's at all necessary,” said Gwen. “I suppose Leon and I can take a bag each and either of you can get the third.”

“I'll relieve you of yours,” Merlin said.

Gwen stammered out a 'thank you' that was all a release of breath. When Merlin grabbed one of the cases from Leon, she added, “I hope you know I wasn't trying to get you to do that.”

“I know.” Merlin grinned, shifting the case from hand to hand. “Happy to be saving you the tip.”

Gwen looked keenly at Merlin, her lashes blinking. “You're kind.”

“I can confirm,” Arthur blurted out, “that he's a rather sentimental fool, prone to giving first time visitors to Greece survival tips.”

Merlin started walking up the quay in the direction of the car park. “I only do that when the first time visitors look like nice, kindly people.”

“Is that it?” Arthur asked, picking up one of the cases and following, inviting Gwen and Leon to do the same by way of a gesture. “Is that what you were thinking back then?”

“Now, now,” Merlin said, as he weaved among the crowd, “don't let it go to your head. We both know you're not kindly.”

“But I'm nice,” Arthur said, the words falling off the tip of his tongue, even as they caused his face to warm. “You must concede.”

“Must I?” Merlin craned his head back, eyes slitted, little mirth lines forming around his mouth. “We can discuss the terms of my surrender later.”

“What makes you think I will be prone to discussing them?”

Merlin hummed. “I don't know, previous experience?”

Gwen said, “Do you always trade barbs that quickly?”

“No,” Arthur said, shoulders aligning.

“Yes,” Merlin said.

They dropped Gwen and Leon at their hotel and had a walk around the Kolonaki district, covering the distance between Syntagma Square and Vassilissis Sofias Avenue, passing fancy boutiques and fine houses. 

“Do you think they hate me?” Merlin asked, as he pretended to study a jeweller's window.

“I don't think Gwen is the hater type at all,” Arthur said. “And Leon has no vested interest.”

Merlin nodded. “I know it must be hard,” he said, his expression tightening. “But I don't want her to. I hope she won't. For you, mostly.”

At midday they picked Gwen and Leon back up. They had changed. Leon was in grey linens and a white shirt. Gwen was now wearing a different coat altogether and had pinned her hair. They both looked dressed up.

“I was thinking of driving you to the Coves,” Merlin said. “There are restaurants close by and you can get a nice view of the sea.”

“Won't Piraeus do when it comes to sea views?” Gwen asked, unknowingly looking in the direction opposite the harbour. “I thought it would.”

“It might,” Merlin told her. “I mean you can see the sea from there obviously, but being a harbour the water's not quite as clear as in Avanissa for example.”

“Oh,” Gwen said. “I hadn't thought of that.”

Merlin drove them. He parked the car at the top of the promontory and led them down to a pebble beach that seemed to extend for a mile or so, flat rocks forming its boundary. In spite of the weather, he took off his shoes and rolled up his trousers, leading them towards a hillock upon which a taverna had been built. Gwen and Leon followed him, hand in hand, and Arthur brought up the rear.

They didn't talk on the way over, but they did start chatting once they'd sat around the table in the taverna. It was placed near the window and overlooking the sea. “It's a fine view,” Gwen said, tugging Leon's sleeve, redirecting his gaze with a motion of her head. “Isn't it?”

“Absolutely delightful,” Leon said, briefly scanning the vista before his attention reverted to the bread basket. “I'll have to come again once I've unpacked my camera.”

“Yes, you most definitely should.” She shifted her chair closer to his and rubbed his sleeves. “Pity it's January.”

“Merlin had a great idea taking us,” Arthur said, trying to ease into the conversation.

Course after course being served, lunch lasted well into mid-afternoon. Merlin, Gwen and Arthur didn't eat much of it, but Leon did tuck in. Over their meal Gwen talked about her plans to help Elyan in business and Leon commented on how he dreaded returning to piles of paperwork once his holiday was over. They asked Arthur about his plans for the future, what job he thought he'd take next. “I'll be representing Merlin's interests for a while. I do have a law degree and he's just been published. After that... we'll see.” They discussed acquaintances and friends, what people they had known were up to. Sophia and Freddie Balan, the group from Gwen's charity. Nobody mentioned Gareth Aston, though Arthur did find himself wanting to know what had happened to him. He didn't make a reference to him though and they stuck to chatting about other acquaintances. Arthur had the feeling he was canvassing a different world altogether, one he could both picture and not fathom anymore, not with the distance that now existed between it and himself.

“What about your friends?” Gwen asked. “Mithian and... well, Gwaine.”

“Gwaine's coming over next month,” Arthur said, knowing he was looking forward to that. “And Mithian's flying over in the summer.”

“I saw her last month,” Gwen said, toying with her fork. “She's a dear.”

“That she is,” Arthur said, missing Mithian all of a sudden, her warm presence and radiant smile. He made plans for putting her up at theirs when she came. He wouldn't relinquish her till he had had his fill of her. “Through and through.”

When lunch was over, Merlin balled his napkin and told Leon, “How about I show you around the beach?”

“I...” Leon gave Arthur and Gwen a speculative look. “Yes, that's a fine idea.”

Gwen and Arthur took coffee on the balcony from where they could watch Leon and Merlin. They shared a few moments of silence, the only sound that of the seagulls calling out to each other as they cavorted in the sky. 

“So,” Gwen said at last, shielding her eyes to look in the distance, “you and him...”

“Yes,” Arthur said, his gaze following Merlin as he climbed the shoals. “Yes, though obviously not officially.”

“Mithian hinted.” Gwen fingered her pearls. “You know, I thought I was prepared...”

“Gwen...” Arthur started before Gwen quietened him by raising her hand.

“But the truth is I still don't know what to feel about him.” She studied Merlin, her expression unreadable. “It's very hard knowing what is proper in these circumstances...”

“Merlin would probably say fuck propriety,” Arthur said, colouring a little when Gwen made a double take. 

Gwen repressed the chuckle that came bubbling out of her. “Perhaps he's right.”

Waves crashed against the shore and the shoals, splashing Merlin, but not Leon who'd held back.

“But I do wish you well,” she said once her laughter had died down. “Mostly I wish you happiness.” She paused, cocked her head. “Are you happy, Arthur?”

Arthur smiled. “Yes.” He looked ahead. “I won't say I got where I am the easy way, or that it will be always easy, day in day out, especially the pretending I have to do, but the answer is most definitely yes.”

“You've got to work at happiness,” Gwen said, looking sideways at Arthur, her mouth tipped into a wry smile. “At least people like you and I do.”

“And are you?” Arthur realised his question harked back to what they had been discussing before, so he specified. “Happy?”

Gwen released a breath. “My answer is the same as yours.”

“I'm glad,” Arthur said, nodding decisively to show her he meant it. “From the bottom of my heart.”

“I know.”

“I worried about you.”

“I know,” she said, grazing his hand with the back of hers. “But I can look after myself.”

“I know,” he said.

“You'll have to realise that just because I am – was – your wife, you're not responsible for me, Arthur. I am responsible for me,” she said, very serious, very determined as she stressed her words. She relented though, cracking a sideways smile. “I won't say that I don't appreciate the well wishes.” She lowered her head, toyed with her wrist watch. “And I want you to know I will always cherish you.”

“I didn't mean to sound patronising,” Arthur says, feeling himself colour, the sting of it warming his face.

“I know that too,” said Gwen, giving him a full smile now. She leant over then and picked something up from the handbag at her feet. She pushed it over to him. “Here.”

Arthur didn't pick up the envelope. He knew what the contents must be. “The decree absolute?”

“Yes,” she said, gripping his shoulder, infusing him with strength. “Don't worry. I was a bit hesitant when I got that too.” After a pause, she added, “To be honest I had a good long cry when Leon brought it to me. And then I felt so much lighter... I'm not saying you were a horrible husband, not at all, just that I knew it was over then, and I knew my life was going to change and I was hopeful.”

“I understand,” he said, smiling now, pocketing the letter without opening it. “I really do.”

Gwen lifted her coffee cup. “I know you should toast with champagne, but...”

Arthur's cheeks twitched before breaking into a smile. He raised his own cup.

“To life and happiness,” Gwen said.

Arthur glanced over at Merlin in the distance. He was beckoning cautious Leon over, inviting him to a caper on the shoals, a little daring, very much Merlin. Filled with warmth, Arthur knocked cups with Gwen. “To life and happiness.”

 

The End

**Author's Note:**

> Homosexuality was decriminalised in Greece in 1951. 1952 was the year of the Alan Turing trial. This was very, very loosely inspired by a play called The Pride, by Alexi Campbell, which I humbly and dearly loved.


End file.
